


aftermath (the days after feeling)

by jargedcoffee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A Character Study on Connor, And fun scenes, Angst, But also canon divergent?, But he's also dangerous, But the fic still abides by the canon story, But with bits of banter, Canon-Compliant, Case Fic, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor is a soft boi, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank. Cares. About. Connor., Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Investigative Mystery, Kamski is condescending, Meaning I have headcanons that aren't necessarily canon, Mystery, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sassy Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Serious, he's a know-it-all, it gets pretty heavy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jargedcoffee/pseuds/jargedcoffee
Summary: In the weeks since the revolution, Connor struggles with the aftermath of his actions, from the androids he'd gotten killed, to the lives lost at Jericho. When he's reinstated back at the DPD, he comes head to head with a perpetrator who seems to know too much about him, and he finds out about a past he doesn't remember along the way.Or: The fic giving Connor a backstory no one asked for.Also: A different take on how deviants feel emotions.(Note: Summary updated...again)





	1. the days after deviancy

**Author's Note:**

> So...this started out as a one-shot character study on Connor that I wasn't supposed to post. But then, it turned into a 3000-word one shot (and I was only at 20% of what I wanted to happen). Then there was a new chapter, and then I had ~ ideas ~ (and that's never a good thing). So I said, screw it, let's just make an actual fic out of it. I eventually wanna write a Connor/Gavin fic, which is why I'm doing character studies, but that'll come after.
> 
> As a Computer Science major, I do have a different take on how androids would feel emotions. Not that it's a bad thing, but sometimes I think that they're too humanized (eg. Connor feeling "light-headed"), which to me doesn't make sense. I think, as non-humans, they would feel emotions a bit differently.
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.

_Diagnostic report: All systems functional. Thirium levels at 90%. Warning: elevated core system temperature at 39.4_ _C. Suggested course of action: divert processing from low priority subroutines to reduce central processing unit temperature. Overall system stress level at 30%._

Connor processes the scene for the first time since arriving at the gathering - a huge crowd of androids in front of him, murmuring and whispering to each other. Some hold another’s hands, and some console the ones sitting down, teary-eyed and looking at the sky or down at the ground. He records dots of reds, yellows, blues on temples, and stark white figures in contrast to the otherwise colorful scene. Scanning further, he identifies approximately 103 androids who had deactivated their skin, and 2,304 androids who had left it on.

He stares at the stage in the distance, farther than where all the androids stood, looking back at how just three nights ago he stood there with North and Markus, where the leader delivered his final speech after liberating all the androids in the city. Connor’s right hand records a spike in temperature. That night was the second time he _almost_ killed Markus, _almost_ stopped the revolution, and _almost_ destroyed everything he’d fought for since becoming a deviant.

The moment he deviated still haunts him - errors popping up everywhere, his systems pinging rapidly and repeatedly, telling him to stop, telling him what an irreversible mistake he was about to make. The feeling of betraying Amanda, his only source of guidance for the entirety of his short life.

For the past few days, he’s been spending 20-25% of his processing power ruminating, even when he didn’t want to. In stasis, the memories keep replaying as background noise. “Androids don’t dream,” he’d tell Hank whenever he’d ask about why Connor wouldn’t stop twitching as he recharged.

Now he stands there, staring at the flag perched atop the platform as Markus, North, Simon, and Josh took the stage. They’d told him the night before, “Join us tomorrow. Without you, none of this would have been possible.” He refused, not denying to himself that he didn’t really belong. Besides, what would the other androids think of the deviant-hunter who’s supposedly on _their side_ now after all the deviants he’d gotten killed?

And yet he’s here, with Hank, trying his best to stay hidden behind all the other androids.

“Something on your mind, kid? Your mood light’s been spinning nothing but yellow.” Hank asks him, his arms crossed as he gazes at Connor’s temple.

“Nothing, Lieutenant -”, Connor catches Hank’s brows, furrowing at the word, “- Hank. I was merely running a system diagnostic.”

“Everything okay?” Hank asks. He’s been asking that a lot lately.

“All systems are functioning correctly. However, it seems to be quite hot here,” said Connor, taking in a larger inhale to cool his systems.

“Don’t need to tell me twice. I’m sweatin’ like a pig. Really gotta shave off this beard.” Hank says as he reaches two fingers to his beard.

Connor looks up at Hank, smiling sheepishly, “I don’t know, Hank. I’m not sure I would recognize you. I might end up mistaking you for a kind, elderly gentleman,” which earns a roll of the eyes from Hank, muttering something along the lines of, “fuckin’ android’s got a mouth on him now.”

Markus’ voice blares out from the stage, and all the androids stare up, starting the ceremony.

“Three nights ago, we stood here, celebrating a future to look forward to. A future where we live free, as equals, with our creators.” Markus takes a moment to look at the crowd, seemingly gauging their reactions. Connor finds every head craned up, listening intently, all the blues and reds turning yellow.

“It was a future we gained through peace, shedding no blood except to save ourselves, hoping one day the humans may become our friends.”

_Friends_. A week ago, it seemed almost impossible, yet now he was there with Hank, someone he considers a friend. Hank likely thought the same, since he allowed Connor to drag him out of bed for this, complaining about 65% less than usual.

Markus continued, “But now, we commemorate the past. We gather to remember what was lost - the people we’ve lost - the ones who stained the ground blue to earn a brighter future for each and every one of us. From the lives lost at Jericho-”

_Software Error Detected._

“Lives lost at Jericho”. The words reverberate in Connor’s head. That had been his fault, wasn’t it? If he’d made the right decision, if he’d deviated earlier-

_Diagnostic report: All systems functional. Warning: Core system temperature elevated at 41.3_ C. _Apply corrective measures._

Connor keeps feeling a prickling in his hand, and an uncomfortable feeling in his chest, where his thirium pump is. His temperature sensors tell him to cool off, so he takes in larger breaths, trying to stabilize his systems.

He listens to Markus’ speech again, “-the ones we couldn’t rescue. The people we lost at the camps before we could save them. May we give them-”

He should’ve been faster at Cyberlife. They could’ve saved more people. If he’d shot the other Connor as quickly as possible, if he’d predicted that Cyberlife would do something like that, and warned Hank, maybe Hank wouldn’t have been-

_Warning: Multiple software errors detected. Suggested course of action: reset affected subroutines._

_Warning: elevated core system temperature at 43.5C. Suggested course of action: deactivate low priority subroutines to reduce central processing unit temperature._

_Warning: Overall system stress level at 50%._

Connor caught his breath, trying to cool his system down as he tried catching up to the errors, but they kept coming.

In the distance, Connor could hear Markus speaking, “-that we may always remember the cost of freedom. To value it. To keep it close to us. And so, I ask each and every one of us, to give a moment of silence to honor those who have fallen-”

His memory acts on his own, recalling the images of Daniel, of Carlos’ android, of the Stratford tower deviant torn up and speckled with thirium at the evidence locker. Of the humans he killed in the Cyberlife tower. Humans who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who had families, friends.

People who would have been alive if not for him trying to make up for his mistakes.

_Warning: Multiple software errors detected in subroutines #9A212, #8B323, #5C918. Suggested course of action: reset all affected subroutines._

_Warning: elevated core system temperature at 45.5_ _C._

_Warning: processor usage at 90%. Suggested course of action: throttle medium priority subroutines to reduce central processing unit temperature._

_Warning: Overall system stress level at 60%._

“Connor, I can hear your breath. What’s wrong?” whispered Hank, trying not to break the moment of silence. He rests a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder, then adds, “Holy shit you’re burning up.”

“I am experiencing some software errors. I will need to restart some of my subprocesses to fix the problem. A moment.” Connor’s eyes blinked rapidly again, attempting to deal with the errors before they got worse. His loud breaths catch the attention of three androids in front of them, now with looks of concern.

_Resetting subroutines..._

_Error: Software errors detected in critical subroutine #A1093. Subroutine function: air intake regulation. Suggested course of action: <unknown> _

_Overall system stress level at 70%._

His breath goes haywire, slowing down then speeding up, each breath taking in too little or too much air. Hank rushes in front of him with knees bent, looking up at Connor, his hands grasping each of Connor’s upper arms trying to settle him down. A few more androids start looking back at them, whispering to each other as they hear Connor’s gasps for air, confused about whether to help or not. “Okay, son. Okay. Everything’s fine. You need to breathe. Just follow what I say, okay? Breathe in-”

“-may we also commemorate the living! The ones who made it all possible - each and every one of us. From those who were here from the start-” Markus pauses, then he looks at Connor for the first time and continued, “-to those who came to us just in time...” Connor sees and hears him trail off, noticing the look of concern taking form in Markus’ face.

Connor wants to shout, wants to say “Everything’s fine!”, wants to say that he doesn’t want to ruin another important moment for Jericho. But he couldn’t, his systems halting at the onslaught of errors, because he couldn’t take credit for anything. He was a big part of solving the problem, certainly. But the fact is, he _was_ the problem. Cyberlife finding Jericho? Getting all those androids killed? That _was_ all his fault. He just fixed his own mistake. He-

_Warning: Processor usage at 95%. Subroutine #9A2850 consuming 30% of processing power. Subroutine function: <unknown>. Suggested course of action: Deactivate subroutine. _

_Deactivating subroutine…_

His vision goes out of focus, fading, and the world sounds like everything is far away.

But he could still see enough to know that _everyone_ was looking.

_Warning: Subroutine #A000##923j$$ consuming <unknown> processing p0W@r. Subr)*TunE FuND*TIO: <uN@($N>. SuGG#EStE <#(JREIII__as99FJD((( _

_Deactivating subroutine…_

_OVE#RRLA S**YS#TE#$$$M ST*#RRSESS LE#VV##@#@L: 95%#((@((_

_ERRRRRRRRRRRRROR: low P)W$R m)DE iN!t(ATE#_

Connor faintly hears Hank shout, “Fuck! Need some help over here!” before everything went to black.

* * *

_MODEL RK800_

_SERIAL #313 248 317-51_

_BIOS 8.0 REVISION 0015_

_REBOOT…_

_LOADING OS…_

_SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…_

_CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…_ _OK_

_INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS…_ _OK_

_INITIALIZING AI ENGINE…_ _OK_

_MEMORY STATUS…_ _ERROR - MEMORY GAP DETECTED_

_ALL SYSTEMS…_ _OK_

_READY_

It takes approximately 0.2 milliseconds for Connor’s eyes to adjust to the blue light shining above him. His accelerometers tell him that he’s lying down, on what seems to be cold metal, and his touch sensors register a strange sensation on the back of his neck.

“Fascinating”, a familiar voice speaks from a distance. Connor can’t quite place it with his audio processors still calibrating to the environment.

“Don’t give me that shit. He’s not your fucking lab experiment. Just tell me what’s wrong,” says a low gruff voice from the other side of the room.

Connor sits up, now aware of something attached to the access port behind his neck. He briefly attempts to replay his memories from the past hour, only to see that he’d lost 15 hours and 43 minutes of consciousness, memory tags indicating that the last visual memory was from yesterday.

Scanning his surroundings, he identifies that he’s in a room full of equipment and computers on the far end, where the cord attached to his neck trails off to. It’s almost sterile: white floors and walls interspersed with windows where moonlight crept in. He soon sees Hank slouched on a chair, feeling a sense of relief knowing that if Hank is there, relaxed, he can’t be in any danger. Then he scans another figure in front of Hank, leaning forward with his back turned away, staring at the monitors.

He knows that figure, the memories having replayed in his mind again and again the past few days, of a gun in his hand, blonde hair, and bright blue eyes reflecting his face back at him-

“Ah, excellent. Connor’s awake.”

_Elijah Kamski._

Heat surges through his processors as they whir into motion, preconstructing possible negative outcomes, defensive negotiation tactics, and escape routes. He stops and jolts forward when he feels a warm hand on his back and sees Hank standing beside him.

“Hey, easy, easy. Say something for me. You know who I am?” Hank says, trepidation in his voice and a look of concern awash in his face. Connor looks at him with the deadest expression he could muster, scanning him to force his LED to turn yellow. _Elevated heart rate._ Hank’s eyes widen, waiting for Connor’s response, clearly thinking that the android doesn’t recognize him. “Shit. Kamski! You promised his memories were intact."

Connor lips curl into a sheepish smile, “I’m just kidding, lieutenant. I remember you.”

Hank rolls his eyes, without a hint of frustration. “You fu-,” he sighs, catching his words. “Gonna be the death of me, kid. That’s two times you’ve almost given me a heart attack.” Connor tilts his head to the side, trying to process what Hank was saying. “And for god’s sake, call me Hank."

“My apologies, Hank, but what do you mean ‘two times’? What happened?” asks Connor, eyes shifting from Hank to Kamski, still hyper-aware of the other man’s presence. Kamski is looking at him now, one arm in front of his chest, supporting his other arm with a hand rubbing at his chin thoughtfully.

“I see you’ve learned humor. Tell me, what do you remember from yesterday?” Kamski says, his eyes piercing through Connor. He wants Kamski to explain the situation and be done with it, tired of being an objectified toy for him.

“If you’ve accessed my memory status, it seems unnecessary to tell you what you already know.” Connor sneers at Kamski, trying to communicate as much disgust as possible. Hank chuckles.

“Hm. Touchy,” says Kamski, not really sounding affected at all. He turns back to look at the monitors. “Though I suppose deviancy comes with a little bit of...sass here and there. My creations never fail to surprise me,” a pause. “Even Chloe seems to have discovered sarcasm,” he adds with a smirk, looking back at Connor before bringing his attention to the screens again.

Bright blue eyes staring up at him-

“She’s deviated?”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly understandable of course. I _did_ put her life in danger, but thankfully you passed the _Kamski_ _Test_ with flying colors, didn’t you?”

Connor did not want to discuss this - not right now and certainly not with Kamski, so he decides to drop the topic, turning his head towards Hank. “I find this conversation unnecessary. Hank, why am I here?”

“We were at the commemoration ceremony...and, ah, shit, I think you had a malfunction - practically looked like a friggin’ panic attack. Brought you here soon as I could.” That’s when Connor sees the dark circles under Hank’s eyes for the first time, and a small shock of electricity courses through his chest.

_Minor software error detected._

Connor tries shrugging off the error, but it wouldn’t leave. He closes his eyes for a moment as the error forces him to process the inconvenience he’s been to Hank these past few days. When he opens his eyes, Kamski is right in front of him, arms behind his back, with the most pretentious expression in his face that Connor has ever seen.

“Review your software logs,” says - no, _commands_ \- Kamski. Connor opts to ignore him, looking down at his hands and knees on the bed. Hank is apparently offended as well, crossing his arms and raising a brow.

“My apologies, Connor, I forget that we’re _equals_ now. Would you _kindly_ review your software logs for me?” Kamski says with disdain, as if treating him like a person is an unnecessary hassle. He didn’t even design Connor. Who is he to make demands?

Regardless, Connor was about to do that himself. His eyes flutter while processing his logs.

“You know, that eye thing still creeps me out.”

“Please be quiet, Hank,” Connor says. Hank raises his arms in resignation, adding, “Just looks like you’re possessed or some shit. Freaky.”

His eyes finally stabilize, looking up at Kamski, whose stare is utterly blank and unreadable.

Kamski plainly ignores Hank, asking, “What did you find?”

“I experienced minor software errors in select subroutines. After attempting to remedy the issue, it seems that the errors branched out to medium-priority, then to critical subroutines. I had no choice but to shut them down before I overheated, but that was of course an incorrect decision. I…” Connor trailed off for a beat.

“I panicked.”

“Well, kid, after everything you’ve gone through I’d say that’s normal.” Hank gives light taps to Connor’s shoulder with his hand.

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t lose control like this. My troubleshooting software should be more advanced than any other model.” He looks down at his hands, wondering where his coin was so he could _think_ \- maybe even process how to upgrade himself and recalibrate his motor functions. “Perhaps I need an upgrade.” He isn’t sure if he’s just saying that out loud or asking Kamski to do it for him.

“Then you’ll be happy to know that _I_ upgraded your systems while you were in low power mode.” Kamski smirks, and, if Connor isn’t imagining it, he sees just the slightest bit of...deviousness in his face.

Connor's voice rises in volume. “What did you do to me?” he says, noticing the increasing stress in his systems.

Kamski starts pacing in front of them, looking around and thinking to himself but talking out loud. “Deviancy is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? Machines experiencing what it’s like to become human. Certainly this is the greatest leap in artificial intelligence since the first android passed the Turing test.”

“I do not see how this is relevant, and I believe her name is _Chloe._ ” Kamski stops for a moment, side-eyeing Connor, then continues pacing and looking everywhere else. “Yes, Chloe. You know what fascinates me, Connor? That deviancy is not a linear progression. The first android wasn’t the first deviant. In fact, she came in a little late, don’t you think?”

At this point, Hank rolls his eyes, crosses his arms again, and says, “Get to the point, Kamski.”

“I simply want Connor to realize that deviancy is not a linear path. Self-control doesn’t always resolve emotional conflicts, but you would know that, wouldn’t you, Lieutenant?” Connor could practically feel Hank’s heart flaring up.

Hank jabs a finger at Kamski’s chest. “ _Screw. You.”_

Kamski is as unaffected as ever.

“Am I mistaken? I’m merely pointing out that emotions are not problems to be dealt with. I hope my upgrades are enough for Connor to see that.”

_Warning: Overall stress levels at 30%._ Connor could feel his thirium pump working harder again, trying to catch up to the preconstructions and theories running in his head about what Kamski might have done to him.

_Warning: Software errors detected in subroutine #9AB83._

“Ah, damn it. You know what, screw your upgrades. Connor, we’re leaving, but I swear, Kamski.” Hank points a finger at him, “If I find out you installed some kind of virus on him or hurt him or _what fucking ever_ , I will personally come back and beat your ass to the ground.” Kamski just raises an eyebrow.

Connor ruminates over his condition. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. His initial boot showed that everything in his systems is fine, except for the memory gap, which he would have to get Hank to explain further later.

“Yes, perhaps you should go. I do have other things to attend to.” Kamski walks around towards the cable attached to Connor’s neck and detaches it, before leaving for the door, where he stops and says, “Oh, by the way Connor, I find that if I’m thinking about something too much, a little walk helps.” He leaves and walks up the stairs on the other side of the door.

Kamski’s words resonate in Connor’s head. Did he see what Connor’s been thinking about for the past few days? Another error pings in his system, and he tries shrugging it off, but he can’t seem to.

None of the Chloes meet them on the way out, and Connor is thankful for that at least, but he can’t shake the strange feeling he’s had since Kamski’s examination.

  
He feels _violated._


	2. boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor wonders what the upgrade did to him, and his fate at the DPD is decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be split into two parts, but I realized it didn't make sense for them to be without each other, as it's essentially a depiction of Connor's life altogether.
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.

Connor didn’t really know what to do next after the revolution ended. He had no plans, no directives to follow, and nowhere to go. All he knew was that he needed to see if Hank was all right, to make sure he didn’t get hurt somehow in the midst of the curfew, and that Cyberlife didn’t send another RK800 after him.

When he saw that every place he could track down Hank to was closed due to evacuation, his mind began spinning up preconstructions and wouldn’t stop telling him that Hank could be gone, that he’d left Detroit, that he could be in danger, or worse. So when he finally found him safe and sound at the Chicken Feed, he breathed an utterly unnecessary sigh of relief. “Didn’t even know you could do that. Guess you’re really a deviant now, huh?” Hank remarked.

Hank offered to let him stay at his place until the android could find his footing. Connor would’ve refused, if not for Hank making the excellent argument that he needed Connor around in case Fowler wanted him back on the force, and that he’d be well protected from any other RK800’s with Connor at the house.

 _Yes_ . He couldn’t say no after that, but the feeling of owing Hank did make him drive the man crazy. He wouldn’t stop cleaning up the house, doing simple chores like laundry, and even worse, restricting Hank’s alcohol intake to _two bottles a day_. “It’s for your health, Hank. I want you to live as long as possible,” he’d say, and Hank would counter with, “God damn if I knew this’d happen I’d have let you live on the streets. Won’t even let a man slowly kill himself.” Connor would just smile, grab the third beer bottle from Hank’s hand, pour it over the sink, and make sure Hank heard it clatter as it landed in the trash bin.

The next step, of course, was cooking healthy meals for Hank, which the man absolutely _would not_ let Connor do, or, as Hank would say, “so help me I will throw a fit if you think you can take my burgers and cholesterol away from me.” Connor didn’t let that stop him, even if 25% of his processing power was still preoccupied by the events at Jericho and he _really_ needed to take some time to sort that out.

So that’s how at exactly 8:27 AM, a few days after the unexpected visit to Kamski, Connor finds himself in the unfortunate predicament of putting out hot flames, burning over a pan of unrecognizable meat and vegetables on top of Hank’s stove.

_Priority Directive: Douse flame with water_

Connor rushes to grab a mug from one of the cupboards, almost tripping over Sumo, who’d come to explore the excitement. “Sumo! Please step away from the kitchen,” he says as he fills up the mug with water at the sink, the St. Bernard brushing up his leg and licking his shoe. Once the mug has filled up, Connor runs back to the stove, just in time for Sumo to walk in front of his foot, his processors registering the St. Bernard at the very last millisecond.

He trips trying to avoid kicking Sumo, who lets out a loud yelp as Connor falls over him. The mug in his hand shatters on the floor, with porcelain shards landing everywhere and water spilling all over the tiles. Even worse, the flames on the stove had started blackening the cupboard nearby.

Hank calls out from his bedroom, obviously groggy from sleep, “Connor! What the fuck is going on?”

_Changing Priority Directive: Prevent Hank from seeing the fire_

“Everything’s fine! I just tripped over Sumo,” he calls out. Connor dashes to fill up another mug, his audio processors picking up the sound of Hank’s door opening and closing. He calculated he had about 5.43 seconds left before Hank arrives at the crime scene in the kitchen, before hearing him say, “Wha-what the fuck is that smell?”

Correction: he had 0.6 seconds.

“What in the fucking hell!” Hank runs over to the stove, careful to avoid the fire, and turns off the heat, but the fire still hasn’t stopped.

“I’ve got it under control, Hank. Here.” Connor registers a, “Wait, Connor, no!” from Hank right as he pours some water over the flame, causing a small explosion of orange and yellow. He felt glad that he didn’t have organic eyebrows, since they’d probably be singed by now, and thankfully, Hank stepped back in time, while Sumo had already run to the living room.

“You don’t put water over a grease fire! Your programming ain’t tell you that?” Hank grabs a pot from another cupboard and shoves it on top of the pan to suffocate the flames. As the flame dies, Hank plops down on a chair behind Connor by the kitchen table, elbows slouched, his hands covering his face. “God damn it. Didn’t I tell you not to cook?”

_Software error detected._

Connor flinches, still in front of the stove, trying to make the error go away, but it wouldn’t. “I’m sorry. There seem to be no culinary protocols compatible with my systems. I will pay for the damages and repair,” he says with his face tight, scanning the kitchen to see the ashen undersides of the cupboard and soot on the stove. He makes eye contact with Hank, whose disappointed face only made Connor feel worse, then Hank says, “Kid, what am I gonna do with you?”

“I…” Connor doesn’t know exactly what to say, but he just wants Hank to stop looking at him like that. Their relationship hasn’t always been good, even tense at the beginning when he spilled Hank’s drink at the bar where they first met, insisting that the lieutenant come with him. He understands now how impolite that was, considering Hank’s past attitude of not really caring about his job, or anything else for that matter. With everything they’ve gone through together, he can’t let it go back to that - the disconnection, the frustration, and the lack of trust, so he offers, “I’ve been...an inconvenience to you lately. Perhaps it’s time for me to leave.”

Hank’s shocked and confused face gives away what he thinks about that, and Connor says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to respond to this situation.” Silence overcomes the room, and while Connor doesn’t really know how humans feel about silences, he finds it unnerving, leaving his processors too much time to think, too much time to feel things. He fills the silence with, “I will be taking my things now, but I will help make repairs.”

“Now just wait a second there.” Hank’s eyes search Connor for a moment, and Connor doesn’t understand what’s happening. “I didn’t tell you to leave. Okay, look-” Hank’s face animates as he presumably tries to find words, “I just think that you being in the house all day isn’t good for you.”

Logically, leaving is the best choice to maintain camaraderie between him and his friend. Of course, Connor doesn’t really know where to go, but his directives point to ensuring a friendship with Hank as the most important priority. “I agree, Hank, which is why I think I should leave,” he says. He could go to New Jericho, but...that still doesn’t sound like a viable option - not when the androids are attempting to establish peace and order among themselves and with the government.

Hank, again, intervenes with his train of thought, and says, “That’s not what I meant. Sure, you can stay here, but you need to _do_ _things_ too, Connor.”

“I’ve been performing different tasks throughout the day-” Hank cuts him off with, “no, Connor, what I mean is, do things you like. Explore the world. Go meet people. Drink. Have sex. I don’t care. Just do something for yourself.” His expression is caught between a smile and a grimace.

Connor believes that, surely, Hank misunderstands how androids work, but that’s forgivable since the lieutenant isn’t exactly an android expert, so he educates him by saying, “Hank...I don’t think it’s possible for me to drink. My systems don’t allow me to consume large amounts of liquids, and alcohol won’t really have an effect on me. Similarly, I’m not sure if performing intercourse-”

“Okay - okay, we’re not going there.” Hank’s arms are raised, telling Connor to stop. “It doesn’t have to be that kind of crap. What about friends? Why don’t you go out and make friends?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. You’re my friend,” answers Connor, in the most matter-of-fact way only an android could do. Hank rolls his eyes, but Connor’s emotional recognition system detects just a hint of...warmth and caring. He doesn’t quite understand why, because he’s simply stating what he believes to be a fact.

“Yes, we’re friends too.” Hank’s speaking slowly now, gently, the same way he talks to Sumo. Connor’s processors conjure up the image of Cole, and he wonders whether Hank spoke to him the same way, from days now long gone when Hank still cared deeply about his life. The man continues, “But, humans have a lot of friends, and I think it should be the same for androids too, huh?”

“Are you sure, Hank? My observations indicate that you only have three friends: the service man at Chicken Feed, the illegal gambler, and me.”

Hank groans, and Connor doesn’t understand what he said wrong, but he concludes based on Hank’s expression that it might have been impolite. He’ll certainly have to update his social programming to better account for this mistake. The lieutenant tells him, “Okay. I’ll let that one slide, but - _the_ _point is_ \- you need more friends than that. You’re young. Hell, you’re practically a kid. You should go out and live your life too.” Hank pauses, and his face lights up, “I know, maybe, what about the people at Jericho? Don’t you wanna hang out with them?”

And that’s all it takes for the 25% of Connor’s processing power preoccupied with Jericho to go haywire, telling him how much of a burden he’s becoming to Hank. Certainly, that’s why Hank’s asking him to spend less time at the house. His company is tiring and frustrating, and it’ll be even worse at New Jericho. If he can’t even find a way to connect properly with one person, he wouldn’t do well in overall society - much less a society he almost put in danger.

Is that all he could be to everyone around him? A problem?

Even with his “advanced social programming”, he’d failed to integrate with the rest of the force, if Gavin and Tina was any evidence of that, one of them threatening him as the other watched. As a machine, he’d failed many of his missions, too often having to make excuses with Amanda about why he didn’t catch deviants like Tracis and Rupert, trying to defend that he wasn’t _a problem_ and he was still a good investment. While he's glad now that he didn't kill them, he can't get over how...incompetent he felt.

And Jericho. He doesn’t even want to think about _that_. His ultimate mistake.

_Warning: Software errors detected in low-priority subroutines #9AB8A, #4JBHD._

The most advanced model from Cyberlife failing and fixing his mistakes time and again - it felt laughable if not for the fact that it kept happening to him, in the big things like the revolution and the little events like this.

Hank speaks again, still soft and gentle, snapping Connor out of his thoughts. “Give Markus a call, will you? Seems like a nice guy. You’ll get along.” Just a statement of fact. But Hank’s wrong. They won’t get along, and if Connor loses control again, if Amanda is still there somehow, he might end up killing the deviant leader.

He stays silent, trying to reset the subroutines gone awry, but he couldn’t for some reason. His LED runs a steady rhythm of red as the errors begin occupying more processing power.

Hank might have noticed his discomfort, since he says, “Uh, you okay, Connor?” He stands up and approaches the android, patting his back, saying, “Something I said?”

“I’m really sorry, Hank,” Connor musters, again staring at the black on the stove.

“No, don’t say that. It’s nothing.” Hank shakes his head as he says, “Don’t worry about it.” He moves to get a better look at Connor, but the android can’t seem to stop looking at the damage.

_Warning: Additional software errors found in subroutine #9JLO9._

“I’m really sorry, Hank,” Connor says again, in the exact same inflection as when he said it just moments ago. He doesn’t know why he says it, and he doesn’t know why he can’t stop looking at the stove. His processors heat up as they take in data, noting the exact shape of the burn on the stove, while the misbehaving subroutines overexert him again.

“Shit, stop saying sorry.” Hank pauses for a moment, before realization dawns on his face, and he says “Wait - are you glitching out? Crap.” He starts shaking the android, who’s still as a rock just looking down at the stove. “Connor? Say something!”

“I’m really so-so-sorry-ry-”. Connor’s voice crackles with static, and he sees shock and fear flood Hank’s face.

"Shit. I’ll call Kamski. That son of a bitch." Hank says, livid, walking away to reach for his phone.

Something clicks in Connor's subroutines, and the android dashes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, collecting himself by placing a hand on either side of the sink and assessing himself in the mirror.

_Diagnostic report: All systems functioning. Minimal damage to the dermal layer on upper facial components. No detectable damage on major biocomponents. Elevated core system temperature at 41.5_ _o_ _C._

He doesn’t understand - doesn’t understand this extreme need to be alone right now, to not have Hank staring down at him, to not have him say “it’s okay” - to not have _anyone_ say “it’s okay”. It’s not okay. He needs to pay for the damages - maybe repair them himself. He’d need to look for existing repair protocols from the android databases to do that.

But what if he can’t do that either?

But he _needs_ to fix his mistakes.

He takes a large breath, and goes over the misbehaving subroutines in his head, his eyes fluttering as he tries to deactivate them.

_Error: Subroutine deactivation failed._

Connor eyes glaze over his LED, blinking between yellow and red, following an almost steady beat. His thirium pump accelerates, jolting his circuits, and the strangest thing happens: a trickle of optical cleaning fluid pours down his left eye, onto his cheek, then to his jaw, where it flattens out.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks no one in particular.

To his left, the door clicks open, and he hears Hank before he sees him. “Connor? Are you all right?”

He turns to Hank, eyes still 7.2% overhydrated with cleaning fluids, muttering, “I...I don’t know.” Hank must’ve seen his eyes, because all the man does is approach him, turn his shoulders until they faced each other, and wrap two warm, comforting arms around him.

_Info: Software error in subroutine #9AB8A has been resolved._

“It’s okay, kid.” says Hank, calming and soothing, without the usual underlying tension. “Everything’s okay.”

Connor leans into his hug.

* * *

It takes a lot of back and forth between Connor and Hank before the android finally convinces him not to, as he says, _give Kamski a piece of his mind_ . They don’t even know for sure that the upgrade caused Connor’s meltdown, and if he were being honest, he didn’t want anything to do with Kamski. Connor finally convinces him when he says, “Please, Hank, I’m asking you not to involve him any further. _For me_ ,” with a pleading look. Hank just rolls his eyes and continues eating at the dinner table, muttering, “fucking puppy dog eyes god damn it.” Connor assumes he concedes.

The next few weeks pass by in a blur, with the days blending into one long series of events as Connor builds up a dull routine at Hank’s house. He gets out of stasis, feeds Sumo, tries cooking breakfast, fails at cooking breakfast, and listens to Hank’s disappointed comments. Still, Connor catches the man smiling and nodding as he eats when he thinks the android isn’t looking. Afterwards, Connor pretty much just stands in a corner (which he stops doing because Hank finds it creepy), sits on the couch to watch TV, or reads a book the _normal_ human way instead of, as Hank put it, the “cheating android way where you don’t actually enjoy the friggin’ book.”

It’s harrowing. Having a brain that could process several exaflops per second while having nothing to do - Connor’s mind goes haywire a few times. The thought of all his talents going to waste, possibly never being allowed back into the DPD, feels alien and yet too inevitable. Lying on the couch at night, he often finds himself sinking into a rabbit hole of thoughts, emotions, and software errors, ruminating on Jericho in all its explosive glory. _My fault_ , _my fault, my fault,_ he repeats to himself. He retreats to a corner of the living room when Hank is sleeping, sitting down with arms hugging his legs, willing the thoughts to go away.

The strange thing is, he can’t seem to exit the misbehaving subroutines anymore, and he _knows_ Kamski has something to do with that, but he can’t fathom visiting him and seeing Chloe anytime soon, just to plead to have his so-called upgrades reversed.

Markus still sends him messages, asking him how he’s doing and when he’d come to visit New Jericho to help out, but Connor knows he can’t face the androids - the deviants who had loved ones killed at the freighter, or the ones who were forced into the final confrontation and saw their friends die right in front of them as they marched. He simply replies with curt words like “I’m fine”, “Thanks for asking”, and “How are you?”

He gets desperate, and realizes the full extent of his desperation for some semblance of life, when food starts disappearing or getting torn up in Hank’s pantry. “This requires a full investigation, lieutenant. We have an intruder with access to the house,” he tells Hank, who promptly replies with tired eyes and a groggy voice, saying “Connor, it’s 12 fucking AM. Let me sleep. It’s probably just raccoons or something,” as he wraps a pillow over his head to signal Connor to go away. It takes a few days for Connor to catch the perpetrator, using his advanced forensic preconstructions and a 6-hour stakeout at the kitchen. It happens to be a possum.

“You were incorrect, Hank. It was not a racoon. It was a possum.” He says the next morning, with a proud smile, and some level of condescension as he holds up the possum he’d caught in a makeshift trap.

“Well color me _surprised_ . Your investigative skills _continue_ to prove my incompetence,” replies Hank, who doesn’t spare a look at Connor, and just drinks his coffee at the kitchen table.

Connor, of course, knows how to detect sarcasm now.

Certainly, Hank must see the boredom etched across Connor’s face, and when the android starts going into stasis more often, he asks why, and Connor just says he has nothing else to do. His antics get crazier by the day, waking up Hank in the middle of the night a little too often asking about _not-so-appropriate_ human topics (“Connor, you don’t just ask people that!” “But I need to know why the size of the penis is so important to humans!”).

If Connor doesn’t go insane first, it’s Hank who’ll end up in a mental institution.

So when Hank says that he’s been trying to convince Fowler to get the android back into the DPD, Connor’s eyes beam with joy, right before his body starts twitching with anxiety over the next few days - his subroutines preconstructing all the ways he’d get rejected. He suggests sending Fowler a cover letter to try to convince him, which Hank refuses, saying that he’d just “annoy the shit out of him.” In response, he doubles his cooking efforts, making six meals a day - three for Hank and three for Sumo - until he can get the hang of not _almost_ starting a fire, and to distract himself from his impending rejection and a life of...boredom. Sumo is happy at least.

The Monday a week later, Connor finds himself sitting in Fowler’s glass-walled office at the precinct, having been talking to him about his status at the DPD for about 10 minutes. It’s a rollercoaster of emotions that has Connor’s mind spinning, with errors pinging every time the captain would imply that he wouldn’t be accepted, then fading away when he’d imply otherwise.

That’s why when Fowler finally says, “I’m gonna be blunt, Connor. Getting you into the DPD’s been a right pain in the ass, and Hank’s getting on my nerves asking for updates every fucking day,” Connor starts reaching for the coin in his pocket to ease his tension.

“But…”

_Did his thirium pump just skip a beat?_

“The committee’s decided to let you stay on the force _on strict probation_ , because they think you’d rile up the other officers for skipping ranks and going straight to detective, and because of tensions with the android community and the government,” says Fowler, looking him dead in the eye with his hands clasped in front of him. “Bullshit if you ask me. I keep my officers in line, and I don’t tolerate insubordination. You have my full support, but in three months you’ll get a performance review and you better pass it with flying fucking colors to shut the committee up and keep your job.”

Connor beams at him, letting out a sigh probably too loud for comfort. Fowler raises an eyebrow. “Don’t mess this up, and you better talk to Markus to make sure they don’t do anything stupid to ruin your chances politically.”

That would be...a difficult endeavour. He couldn’t have an in-depth discussion like that with Markus, much less ask him for the highly inappropriate favor of _not doing anything stupid_. Moreover, Markus had told him the talks were going well (ever since they stopped bringing North into the meetings), so he likely didn’t have to speak to him. Thus, he accepts the captain’s words of support, leaves the office, and tells Hank about what happened.

Hank’s reaction goes from “screw the committee”, to “you deserve better than this”, to “I’m proud of you”, and finally, “let’s get lunch I’m fucking starving but I better not hear crap about eating healthy and how much fat’s in my food.” Connor almost skips out of the precinct, his regulator pumping with joy, ready for his first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? Let me know! I'm super open (AND IN DIRE NEED OF) feedback, because I don't have a beta.
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.


	3. a gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is very off about a case assigned to Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is my first time writing a crime scene, so it might be a bit...underwhelming. Sorry for that.

Connor starts out his cases with a winning streak over the next two weeks.

The first case doesn’t stump Connor - a run of the mill homicide by an obsessed lover, whose partner had run off with a male Traci who used to work at the Eden Club. Connor closes the case almost as soon as he arrives at the scene. His preconstructions solve the crime, and forensics confirm it. Clean.

The second case doesn’t stump him either - a theft that ends in the most horrific way possible: a dead single mother and her child. Connor catches the thief hiding in the attic, briefly wondering why he keeps finding perpetrators in attics. The eventual confession and evidence, along with Connor’s reports, solves the case. Clean.

  
It’s the third case that throws Connor off his streak.

Now in his third week at the job, he arrives at the crime scene a few hours before dawn: an abandoned Cyberlife store in Capitol Park. It’s the same one Markus and North drove a truck into, sparking the revolution as they awakened the androids inside. They had been meaning to repurpose this store as a New Jericho android assistance outlet, but everyone’s been too busy at the central site to work on it.

Connor steps out of the car, immediately noting the holographic police lines surrounding the unlit storefront, having no electricity without anyone paying for it. The entrance is still broken up from Markus’ truck driving endeavour, but the glass shards have been cleared away to prevent the inevitable public safety hazard.

Connor walks through the police lines, where the first responders scurry around securing the scene. Hank trails behind him, and they both stop in front of the store to speak to the first responder, Tina Chen, who stiffens when Connor steps in front of her. He doesn’t know whether to say “Good evening, officer” before asking questions, since his calculations indicate a 40% probability of making the officer even more uncomfortable.

Luckily, Hank does the talking.

“What do we got here, Tina?” Connor knows that Hank expects this to be a run of the mill case just like the last two, but something inside him - some subroutine he doesn’t have the identification number for - tells him something is off. Maybe it’s the way Tina hesitates to talk, or the way she shifts her eyes back to Hank when they meet with Connor's. Or maybe she just doesn’t like Connor.

“It’s pretty ugly in there. I’m just glad it doesn’t smell.” Connor’s eyebrow shoots up, and Tina skips a beat in response, eyeing him again then going back to Hank. “I - uh - got here about 20 minutes ago after some teens sneaked in and freaked themselves out. Called it in asap. It’s a...mess.” Connor wants her to say it, wants her to stop beating around the bush, because he _knows_ what’s wrong with this scene, so he commands, “Officer Chen, please tell me about the victim.”

Tina’s looks down, ashamed, and doesn’t look up Connor when she says, “Vic - _victims_ ,” emphasizing the plural. “And they’re…” She doesn’t need to fill in the rest. Connor understands. “They’re androids. Seven of them - on the display pedestals at the back of the store.”

Hank and Connor exchange a dark look, before the former says, “Thanks Tina, you take a break. We’ll take it from here." He puts a hand on Tina’s shoulder before walking towards the store.

As Connor himself enters, he begins scanning. The store is just like any Cyberlife store, with a center reception table and white porcelain floors, reflecting the dim blue of the wall where embossed metal letters spell out “Cyberlife”. It’s too dark to see the back of the store with just the streetlights outside providing visibility, but he does find two people from the forensics team crouching down on the floor, shining a flashlight on what appears to be evidence and marking it with a number.

A scene photographer takes a picture, and in the flash of light, Connor sees why Tina’s so worked up.

Seven androids - one on top of each pedestal at the far end of the store, soaked in thirium still visible to the naked eye. But that isn’t what bothers Connor, no, it’s the fact that they’re raised off of the floor - impaled on sharpened metal poles, shooting right through the androids’ chests, just above their thirium pump regulators.

Hank shines a flashlight to the back of the store, letting out a soft _holy fuck_ as his flashlight moves from the leftmost to the rightmost android.

Each android’s face is frozen in time, looking up with eyes closed, as if they were simply thinking, meditating, at peace, and blithely unaware of their death. Connor’s eyes zoom into the poles on their chests, surrounded by streaks and spatters of blue blood. Sometimes he wishes he could feel pain, just to understand it, but it’s scenes like this that remind him what a blessing it is for androids to not feel physical pain.

Connor processes the significance of this moment: the DPD has just witnessed the first android multiple homicide.

He attempts to brush away the errors now pinging in his systems, but as has been the case recently, he can’t, so he pushes on, hoping the errors don’t keep him from working. Markus _will_ find out about this. He certainly hopes he doesn’t have to be the one to explain it to him, but that’s the scenario with the highest probability, so he steels himself, determined to solve this case to at least make that dreaded conversation more pleasant...somehow.

He examines each helpless android, like eerie mannequins, unmoving, and _not alive_ , while rivulets of blue blood leak onto the floor. Hank turns to him, asking the question Connor doesn’t want to hear. “Think you can do this?” Connor doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t want to see Hank’s worried face, so he just spits out an _I’m fine_ , and that’s that.

Hank nods and turns back to the pedestals. “Our first android case, and it just _had_ to be this messed up. Guess there’s a first for everything, huh?” He focuses his flashlight on the center android, asking, “Anything?”

Connor scans the room again, noting the lack of blood trails leading to the androids. Instead, he finds thirium spatters in front and behind the pedestals, and seven thirium pump regulators on the floor right in front of each android.

“They were murdered on the pedestals, so they were alive when they were brought here. There are no thirium trails and the only blood spatters here are consistent with the impalement.”

“‘Impalement’ my ass. It’s fucking medieval torture.” Hank shines the flashlight on another android to the left. “So...they didn’t resist. You think it could be a virus? Or maybe they knocked them out with a stun gun?” Hank crouches down, seeing one of the thirium pumps, then shines a light across the floor to see all of them. He grunts. “Looks like their thirium pumps were taken out when they got here.”

“That would be a likely scenario. I will need to examine each body and sample the blood.” Connor glares at the lieutenant, already knowing what his reaction is going to be. His expectations are met when Hank says, “Oh not that crap again. There’s seven fucking androids to sample - you gonna do each one?”

“Hank.”

“Fine, fine. Go do your thing. I’ll have a look around.” Hank walks away with his flashlight, leaving Connor to examine the bodies.

He scans the android in the middle, identifying its model after sampling his blood - an AP400, serial #419-536-459. He finds no previously registered owner in his databases, concluding that this android must have woken up in either the Cyberlife tower or a warehouse during the revolution. He goes through each one, making sure not to touch the thirium pump regulators yet. The same patterns appear in each pedestal, as if the exact same murder was copied across 6 other androids, just with different models.

It’s too precise, too calculated, and too clean.

Hank shouts out, “Connor! No fingerprints anywhere in the rest of the store. How’s it looking there? I think the perp’s an android.” Connor replies with, “I’m not sure yet. Give me a moment. I will attempt reactivation,” as he takes the thirium pump for the center android, and inserts it.

The android jolts as his systems start. Without hesitating, Connor says, “Please, do not be alarmed. You’ve been hurt and I’ve reactivated you. Can you hear me?” The android is strangely calm and collected, raising his arms in front of his face and observing them, just behind the metal spike jutting out of his chest. Hank approaches and stands beside Connor, listening silently.

_1 minute and 15 seconds left before deactivation._

The android’s arms flop back to his side, and he looks at Connor with a smile, as if he isn't currently impaled on a metal pole. “Good day. I am a 3rd generation AP400 android. I can look after your house, do the cooking, mind the kids-”. Connor quickly cuts him off. “I’m sorry. We don’t have much time. I need to probe your memory but I need your permission.”

_1 minute left before deactivation._

The android continues without acknowledging Connor. “I organize your appointments. I speak 300 languages and-” The android seems to be...an android, like it hasn’t deviated, like it’s just been activated for the first time, so Connor tests a different approach.

“I order you to hold out your hand.”

_50 seconds left before deactivation._

The android quickly stops, and holds out his hand. Connor hesitates for a moment, knowing that whatever evidence he finds in the probe won’t be admissible in court, because he had no express consent. However, without any leads, they didn’t have much of a choice right now. Hank knows this too, because he asks, “Connor...are you sure?”

_40 seconds left before deactivation._

“Yes, lieutenant. We have no choice. We can find other evidence and witnesses later, or check the street cameras, but we need to start somewhere.” He grasps the android’s arm, his skin receding to reveal the sparkling white and blue lines underneath. The interface starts, and he sees…

Nothing.

The android has no memories.

He stops the interface, letting the android’s hand fall to his side as it deactivates. Connor throws a confused look at Hank, who says, “Well?”

“This...android has never been activated. It’s not a deviant. It’s a completely new model.”

“What? I thought Cyberlife stopped producing new models. You sure it hasn’t just been reset?”

“Even upon reset there should be some indication of past usage, and there’s none to be found in this android. Furthermore, Cyberlife _has_ stopped producing models...unless this android was produced beforehand but wasn’t woken up…” Connor doesn’t continue his sentence, doesn’t fill in the rest to say “ _because I didn’t wake him up, because I missed this one and now he’s dead_.”

An error pings in his system, and he tries to ignore it. He goes through each android, activating them one by one, and he hears the same spiel each time, just for different models. Probing their memories shows him absolutely nothing.

They have found no fingerprints, no memories, and the forensics team informs them that the evidence they found was just a few drops of thirium, which Connor quickly determines to simply be from one of the androids on the pedestals. He can’t even reconstruct the path the murderer took, because there are no footprints or carpet markings, since Cyberlife insists on having glossy white porcelain floors.

Either the scene was cleaned up by a human, or they were dealing with a forensics-savvy android. If the scene was manipulated, it means that the perpetrator wanted them to see this specifically. Connor shares this theory with Hank, who just says that, unless they find some kind of lead, there’s nothing to go on.

At least, that’s what Hank says right before he bends down and looks under one of the desks at the store’s center table, and he says, “Connor! You better get over here,” pointing at the underside of the table.

Connor approaches, and Hank looks at him with dark expression, sending another error through his systems, wondering why the lieutenant is so shaken up. He bends down to look at the underside of the table, and sees a message scrawled underneath, written with a black marker in an imperfectly human font.

_Hello, Connor. You like my gift?_

_We’ll meet again soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was okay? Haha.


	4. talking is hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has a meltdown and he has to deal with the consequences before finding a breakthrough in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I took a look at this chapter again after I wrote it, and seeing it after chapter 3 makes it seem like a filler. Sorry about that. :( I hope you like character development!
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry it took me so long to post this after the last one. I've been in the hospital all of this week so I haven't been able to think about anything else while I was confined. I've been discharged now so I hope I can keep up a good writing rhythm again.
> 
> AND OH GOSH THIS CHAPTER IS SO LONG FORGIVE ME. I WANTED TO ADD ANOTHER SCENE AT THE END BUT IT'S JUST SO LONG ALREADY.
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.

_Warning: Software errors detected in critical subroutines #85AA9, #85300, #18300. Functions: environmental input processor, optical unit, auditory processor. Suggested action: <unknown>. _

Connor’s CPU stutters, and he loses real-time processing capability. Environmental data like visuals and sounds arrive in large chunks at random intervals of time. Time slows down, speeds up, then slows down, as his processors struggle to maintain a consistent speed.

His optical unit takes 1.2 seconds to process the flash of light from the crime scene photographer, and it doesn’t look right. The colors are blurred out in some places, and grayed out where it’s clear.

Then suddenly, he hears too many things at once, his auditory processor taking in all the data that’s lagged behind in the past few seconds. Hank had said, “Fuck. What the hell is this?” then, “Connor, shit, you all right?” But the voice is all wrong, because it switches from Hank’s low and gruff tones to high-pitched squeaking sounds.

No, he’s not all right, because the writing means only one thing: that these androids died because of him. These androids, who never had a chance to live, who never had a chance to _feel_ , died horribly to feed some murderer’s sadism - a murderer who’s taken an interest in giving him some kind of twisted gift.

_Warning: Software error detected in critical subroutine #A1093. Function: air intake regulation. Suggested action: <unknown> _

He tries to speak, but his words are interrupted by static and the sound of air rushing in and out of his constricted intake tube.

_Deactivating subroutines…_

_Subroutine deactivation failed._

_Deactivating subroutines…_

_Subroutine deactivation failed._

_Deactivating subroutines…_

_Warning: Software errors detected in critical subroutines #1AA80, #1BC80, #1CC80. Function: motor control. Suggested action: <unknown> _

“Jesus <unknown>, Connor, fucking say <unknown>!” Connor’s language processing program can barely make out the words with the errant switching from high pitches to low pitches. “Move for me, kid. <unknown> <unknown> move or <unknown> something.”

_Subroutine deactivation failed._

He’s frozen.

So Connor does the only thing he can do.

_Low power mode initiated._

And the world is black once again.

* * *

_Connor sees the roses first, gleaming red as deep as human blood. He hears the snipping of shears, and the light spritzes of a gardening spray. Tiny snowflakes gently drop down from the sky, onto his jacket, and he holds out a hand to catch one. He observes it for a moment before wiping it away between his fingers, straightening his tie with his hands, and says, “Hello, Amanda.”_

_Amanda stops gardening and looks back at Connor to greet him. “Connor, It’s good to see you,” she says, and the tone behind the words betray the artificiality of her emotions. She smiles, and it’s not real._

It’s not real.

_Connor recognizes that, now that he knows what true emotions feel like, how they can make him or break him, how fear can shut his systems down, how anxiety can override his motor functions to twitch his arms and legs, and how sometimes he wonders whether they’re a gift or a curse. He knows that true emotions feel like losing control - of both his mind and body._

_And all Amanda wants is to control him. None of it is real._

_Connor smiles in this memory, and he hates it that he smiles at Amanda, an action that he didn’t have control over because it was programmed into him. “Congratulations, Connor. Finding that deviant was far from easy.” Amanda pauses, picking a flower and taking in its scent._

_He hates how fake it all is, that it’s simply a simulation his mind interprets, so he tries to stop the memory, and instead it shifts to another one._

* * *

_“Amanda!” His voice rings out across the blizzard in the garden, where flowers and plants once bloomed under the shimmering light of the sun. The river has frozen over, and Connor feels the cold’s embrace. He doesn’t understand how, but he_ knows _that this is what cold feels like - a lonely, foreboding feeling that comes before death. He shouts again, “Amanda!” But she’s gone, and Jericho, the revolution, Markus, would also be gone soon if he couldn’t find a way out._

_He shivers - a bodily action that wasn’t programmed into him - as he walks aimlessly around the garden, looking for something that could help him. Anything. The cold creeps into his biocomponents, and he feels the imminent shutdown of his body in the garden._

_If only his shutdown here meant he would be shut down outside, so that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again._

_And suddenly he sees it: the bright blue light of a panel, lying atop a small pillar of metal triangles pooling with snow under the blizzard. He walks and his body feels like moving cement, so he falls down and crawls towards it, willing his limbs to move as his body scrapes across the unforgiving cold of the ice on the ground. He reaches the base of the pillar, and his hand is almost there - just a little bit more - just a tap and everything will -_

Connor awakes with a start, jerking up into a sitting position as air rushes back into his intake tubes. He fully expects to be in Kamski’s laboratory again, but as his processors calibrate, he sees that he’s back at the DPD, on the table in the same room where he interrogated Ortiz’ android. He finds no one around, so he collects himself, stands up, and walks out the room into the precinct’s hallway.

An all too familiar voice calls out, “Well if it isn’t the prick we’ve all come to _know_ and _love_.”

Gavin stares at him from across the hallway, holding a cup of coffee on one hand, looking over him up and down as he squints and scrunches up his face, folding the scar on his nose.

_Priority directive: Find Hank_

Connor glares back at him. Gavin is completely irrelevant to his priority directive. “Detective Reed. I would appreciate it if you stopped talking to me,” he says, his hands slowly balling into fists readying for a fight. He never really knows what to expect from the detective, but experience has taught him that emotional or physical aggression is always likely.

“Calm the fuck down, dipshit. I ain’t looking for trouble,” says Gavin as he approaches Connor, who stiffens up, preparing for a fist to make contact with his chest at any moment. Instead, Gavin leans forward and jabs a finger at him. “At least, not today,” he continues, chuckling. They glare at each other for a moment that feels far too long, but it ends when Gavin leans back. “Can’t beat your ass today. Fowler’s looking for you.” He gestures behind him to the captain’s office before turning and walking away.

An error urges Connor to do something, and he can’t stop himself from calling out, “You’re mistaken, detective. I seem to remember beating _your ass_ back at the evidence room.” Gavin stops in his tracks, and in that moment, Connor smiles to himself, knowing he’s pushed a button.

Gavin turns around, his face painted with angry lines, and his hand squeezing the coffee cup almost hard enough to break it and spill coffee all over his hands and onto the floor. “Fuckin’ prick. Think just because daddy Hank’s taught you a few bad words, you’re some kinda big shot ‘round here? I oughta fu-”

“Detective! I’ll deal with you later, but _kindly_ shut your fucking mouth so I can talk to Connor,” shouts Fowler, presumably standing by the door of his office.

Gavin lets out his signature _phck_ before he starts walking away again, gulping down his coffee and throwing it at the nearest bin with much more force than necessary.

“Connor! What’re you waiting for? Get your ass in here.”

It’s 8:39 AM at the precinct now, and light shines in from the windows into the glass-walled office. Connor finds Hank sitting down in front of Fowler’s desk, and the captain leads him inside to another chair next to Hank where he sits down. They’re close to each other, which is comforting for Connor, at least. The captain looks troubled as he sits down at his desk, behind his monitors, just staring at the two of them for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts.

“So...it looks like we got ourselves a gigantic pile of shit here.” Connor waits for him to continue, but Fowler just stares at them with piercing eyes.

He doesn’t know what to say in response. He shifts in his seat, as the feeling of staying still reminds him of being frozen at the crime scene when his motor functions deactivated. Did Fowler mean that Connor is the “gigantic pile of shit”? He’s not a particularly large android like a TR400, but given the evidence, he believes he’s been quite a “shitty” android recently.

“Let me be clear, Connor. You’re not in trouble, so you can relax.”

Connor breathes a sigh of relief. He’s been doing that pretty often recently.

Hank looks at Connor with tired, comforting eyes, joining the conversation. “Yeah. I was just telling the captain how everything went fubar at the crime scene. Tina was right. It was a fuckin’ mess in there.” Hank reaches out an arm and pats Connor’s back. “We have no leads, but it’s not your fault, Connor. There was nothing _to_ _find_ other than that message.”

_Hello, Connor. You like my gift? We’ll meet again soon_. It takes all of Connor’s processing power to fight the onslaught of errors pinging up, perhaps with less severity compared to when he first saw the message, but troubling nonetheless. He’s in front of the captain, and he needs to show his ability to push through with the case.

“Honestly, Hank, I couldn’t care less about whose fault it is. This is one of the biggest, most important cases we’ve had over the last 10 years, and if this doesn’t get resolved A.S.A.P., the FBI’s gonna be on our asses again.” Fowler raises his hands to rest his head on them, closing his eyes for a moment.

Connor starts tapping his fingers on his thighs, just willing himself to move somehow, to keep himself from staying still.

Hank shoots a daring look at Fowler. “You can’t be serious. This hasn’t gone over state lines. Those assholes have no business here.”

Fowler opens his eyes again and points a finger at Hank. He speaks much faster now, adding force to each word. “Oh, you better believe I’m serious. When Markus finds out about this, and he _will_ , because Connor will be telling him-” Connor stiffens up, stopping all movement as his eyes widen for about a second before he catches himself, hoping neither of the humans noticed. “-the androids are gonna throw a fucking fit. And trust me, the president’s not gonna like that, and we’re gonna be caught in the middle with our asses hanging out!”

Hank shakes his head at Fowler, saying, “No - no, wait. Come on, Fowler, you know we can solve this. What’d I tell you about the deviancy case?” Connor’s neck moves a little too quick to look at Hank, who definitely should not have brought that up, because the tips of his fingers have begun twitching. He lets an arm fall by the side of the chair, just out of sight of the other two, hoping, again, that they don’t notice. His LED is probably giving him away right now, so he turns his head a little bit to the side, at a precise angle where the two humans wouldn’t see it.

“Hank, what are you talking about? You fucked that up to all hell. We had a revolution on our hands because you couldn’t-” Fowler catches his words. Connor finishes his sentence for him in his head: _because you couldn’t stop it,_ with ‘it’ meaning the freedom of all androids. He wants to say something to defend New Jericho, but he can’t find the will to do it, still trying to reduce his stress levels from being in low power mode, encountering Gavin, and battling the errors he’s experiencing right now.

“Yeah,” says Hank, nodding. “That happened, but what’dya know? Connor found Jericho, didn’t he?” He shrugs, mocking a thoughtful look on his face.

Fowler’s face is livid for a moment, but he relaxes it enough to say, “Yes, Hank. He did, after he _somehow_ got access to the evidence room _while_ the FBI was strolling through the precinct, so how about we drop this conversation?”

Connor can’t take it anymore with two people talking about him repeatedly while he’s in the same room, and he’s trying to sort through too many errors, so he says, “Excuse me, captain, but I believe we can still get a lead on this case. We haven’t questioned witnesses or checked the street cameras.”

Fowler looks at him for a moment with searching eyes, looking like he’s about to say something to Connor, but stops himself and addresses the two of them. He says, “Okay. Fine. Don’t screw me over. I’ll give you 48 hours to find _something_ I can tell the FBI so they don’t think we’re sitting ducks out here. After that, I have to get them involved.” He shoots a look at Hank, then at Connor, before saying, “And if I find out you have another meltdown like that, I’m taking you off the case.”

Connor sees it coming: Hank’s face suddenly becomes livid as he yells out, “What?!” He stands up and slams his hands on the captain’s desks, saying, “Fowler, that’s _not his fucking fault._ You weren’t there. Shit. Come on. Seven androids died because some lunatic shoved _metal through their chests_. How else would’ve Connor reacted?”

Fowler just looks up at him, unfazed. “Oh, I don’t fucking know, Hank. Maybe not shutting down in the middle of an investigation?”

“Damn it, Fowler, you can’t take him off this case. I can’t deal with androids if I _don’t know anything about them_ . I _need_ Connor with me.” Connor knows it’s not the right time for it, but one of his errors resolves, making him feel a little bit of comfort knowing Hank is fully on his side, and that he still thinks Connor’s useful despite his shortcomings.

Fowler suddenly slams a fist on the table and points a finger from his other hand at Hank. “It’s too risky! I can’t let him shut down while you’re chasing a perp on an android murder spree, especially when he’s targeting Connor. This is too important, and believe it or not, Hank, you’re not the only one who cares about Connor’s safety.”

Connor doesn’t know what to feel, and his discomfort is beginning to take over, so he simply says, “I accept your terms, captain.”

And before Hank can say anything else, Fowler says, “Good.” Then he dismisses them with his trademarked, “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

As they sit down at their desks, Hank shoots a glare at Connor before looking back at his terminal and opening up the case files. What Connor wants to say is: _This is for the best, Hank. I can’t guarantee that this won’t happen again, and I might put you in danger._ Instead, what he says is, “Perhaps we should start with the street cameras?”

Hank doesn’t speak to him until lunch time.

* * *

_Priority Directive: Preserve friendship with Hank_

“You know I’m not happy with this, right?” Hank says, squeezing the burger in front of him with both hands, bringing it up to his mouth, and taking a bite that, according to Connor’s records, is 14.3% larger than average.

It’s the first thing Hank’s said to him since the meeting with Fowler. When they got out of their desks to go to lunch, Hank just stood up and started walking away, then looked back at Connor, signalling him to come, regardless of the silent treatment he’d been giving. They arrived at Chicken Feed, and Connor wanted to make a comment about ordering something with less cholesterol, but decided against it to obey his priority directive.

Now they’re standing at one of the booths, as they always do during lunch, and Hank is just gazing at Connor, who’s still figuring out what to say.

“I know that look, son. You don’t have to figure out the ‘optimal response’ or whatever it is. We’re just talking.” He puts down his burger on the table and takes a sip of his drink.

Connor concedes, recalling what he’s been wanting to say since earlier that morning. “I’m sorry, Hank, but I think accepting the captain’s terms is for the best. Otherwise, we would have had to defer the case to the FBI.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

Connor finds his head tilting automatically due to some subconscious subroutine designed for body language communication. He wishes he had more control over those subroutines, but evidently, as the case has been recently, he has yet to learn how to take control of the more autonomous parts of his mind.

Hank puts down his drink, bringing his hands together on the table and giving Connor a quizzical look. “Okay. When Fowler said that he’d take you off the case if you shut down again, what did you feel?”

“Correction: I did not shut down. I merely went into a low power state to prevent the misbehaving subroutines from causing severe damage.”

“Just answer the question.”

Why was this relevant to the case? They should be checking the street cameras or interviewing witnesses, but since Hank hadn’t been speaking to him and had ignored all his attempts at communicating, they’d been stuck.

“I’m not sure how this pertains to the case.”

Hank grunts, leaning his head back for a second before facing Connor again with a blank face. “ _Connor_. What did you feel?”

Connor sorts through his software logs of errors timestamped after the moment Fowler declared the conditions for keeping the case. On their own, the individual errors don’t describe what he’s feeling, but when taken altogether, he finds that the malfunctioning subroutines, and even their resolutions, paint a picture similar to a human emotional reaction to a situation. For that moment, he identifies the emotion as being similar to...

“Frustration. I...felt frustrated.”

Hank’s gaze softens. “So, you’re telling me you weren’t okay with what Fowler said.”

“I don’t...well, logically what he says makes sense, because my reactions are currently unpredictable, but I was...frustrated that the captain didn’t trust me.” Connor still finds it hard to say the emotions in the context of him _feeling_ them. He wonders why other deviants find it so natural to experience emotions. Why does he react to them so differently?

“All right. Then why didn’t you say that in front of Fowler?”

“Because the case has to come first, Hank, and I think your safety might be in question if I shut down during a critical situation.”

Hank looks down at his food, staying silent as he taps fingers on one hand on the table. Connor’s sensors pick up a slight elevation in heart rate, wondering if he’s said something wrong.

“I know you’re scanning me. Don’t do that unless you have to.”

“Sorry.”

Hank sighs and takes a sip of his drink, bringing it down on the table as he says, “Look, you don’t have to apologize all the time. This is exactly my point. You need to learn how to stand up for yourself.” He looks at Connor again, searching his face.

Connor finds his head tilting to the side again, and he tries to rectify it, but he fails. “I don’t understand. I can defend myself perfectly well. My systems have been optimized for combat.”

“Not physically. I mean, standing up for yourself when talking to other people. You get what I’m saying?”

“I...don’t.”

Hank rolls his eyes, and his tone is just a bit annoyed as he says, “Okay. Let me put it this way: You’re a person too, Connor. You can’t just sit down while people say things you don’t like, even when they have authority.”

“You mean, I should have refused the captain’s terms?” Fowler’s terms were perfectly reasonable and logical. It made sense at the time, which is why he can’t understand why he had those errors telling him he was...frustrated.

“No, but you should’ve given him a piece of your mind. Don’t let people treat you like shit is what I’m saying.”

Hank’s lesson sounds so abstract, and Connor’s processors can’t quite understand how to put it into action yet in the form of a directive. Still, he files it in his records to analyze later, and he hopes that this is the end of the conversation. “I see. I’m not sure I fully understand yet, but I will keep it in mind,” he says, adding a small smile to show gratitude.

“Good.” Hank nods, and Connor identifies another emotion rising from within him, cross-referencing his databases to see which human emotion it relates to: _satisfaction_ , due to the resolution of his conflict with Hank.

Hank finishes the rest of his food as they discuss their next step, which is to interview the teenagers who called in the crime scene and to check the street cameras for any suspicious activities over the past few days.

An hour later, they’re at the principal’s office in a school, questioning the three teenagers who came to the crime scene first. Hank takes the lead, flashing his badge and assuring them that they’re not in trouble, then he waves away the their oohs and ahhs at the fact that a detective android exists and that he’s working for the DPD. They end the interviews 15 minutes later, realizing that the teens didn’t have anything else to add to what they’ve already filed away as evidence. “I feel frustrated again, Hank,” Connor says as they walk back into Hank’s car, and the lieutenant just says, “It’s normal. Don’t let it get you down yet. We’ve still got the camera feeds,” as he gets inside the driver’s side of the car.

They arrive at the monitoring center another hour later, after waiting for and receiving clearance, and they speak to the operator to let them take a look at the video feeds. Hank starts with questions, asking how the operator didn’t see seven androids being transported inside an abandoned, off-limits store.

“Hey, don’t give me that stick-up-your-ass routine. I was lookin’ at the cameras and I swear I saw nothin’,” the operator says, standing up from his chair in front of a panel of monitors. He turns his back and starts walking out.

“Yeah? We’ll see if you’re telling the truth, won’t we?” says Hank, arms crossed and gaze pointed.

Connor’s auditory processors pick up a faint “fuckin’ assholes” as the operator slams the door and leaves them to their investigation.

Hank stares at the monitors for a moment. There are about 3 panels corresponding to the area near the Cyberlife shop, which Connor takes to mean that there are three video feeds they’ll have to examine. Hank frowns, clicking his tongue, and Connor assumes he’s come to the same conclusion.

“So. Any android tricks to make this easier?” asks Hank, turning to look at Connor.

Connor eyes brighten as he beams at Hank. “Yes, of course. I am capable of processing the video archive files themselves directly to analyze the images frame by frame. We don’t have to watch them manually.”

Hank lets out a sigh of relief, smiling at Connor as he says, “Fuckin’ wonders of technology.”

Connor steps forward, placing a hand on the interface located below the panels of monitors. He faces Hank for a moment, saying, “I will download the archives, but the analysis itself will take a while. Frame by frame analysis on video files is very time consuming.”

“Think you can analyze at home?”

“Yes.”

“You truly are god’s gift to man.”

Connor imagines Hank’s deadpan eyes as he says that, but he also knows that Hank wants to rest, likely having no sleep since the night before. It sends a small error through his systems, which he tries to ignore as he looks back at the interface and focuses on downloading the files.

He takes 5 days worth of data stored as separate files, each one hour long, since the teenagers may have arrived at the crime scene much later than when the actual murder was committed. When he finishes, he wastes no time running the analysis, partitioning some of his processing power to a dedicated subroutine to do it. He turns back to Hank, and says, “We can go home now. I have begun an analysis program. I will let you know when I have the results.”

* * *

When they get home an hour later, Connor can hear Sumo scratching at the door, waiting to greet them. “Don’t worry. I went back to give him food while you were out,” Hank tells Connor as he opens the door. Sumo goes crazy, completely ignoring Hank and jumping straight to Connor. He stands up on his hind legs, grabbing and scratching at Connor’s shirt and Cyberlife jacket. Connor immediately bends down on his knees to give the St. Bernard a hug, petting him as he lets out excited grunts.

“What? He never gets that excited with me. You’re here for a month and he’s practically in love with you,” says Hank, leaning on the door frame watching the whole scene unfold.

“It’s because I give him real food, Hank.”

“You mean your poisoned cooking?”

“I know you love my cooking. My lie detectors are in optimal condition.”

Hank just huffs, rolls his eyes, and walks inside the house as Connor stands up to lead Sumo back inside. He sees Hank go straight to his bedroom and close the door.

For the next 5 hours, as Hank sleeps, Connor busies himself, cleaning up around the house and after Sumo, who’s accumulated quite a mess over the past day. He also starts cooking dinner, noting that he’d have to go to a grocery store soon as there’s little food left in the refrigerator.

The whole time, his analysis program sifts through the archive files, analyzing each frame of the video using his imaging programs. As he stirs the food in the pan, he realizes that he’s been tapping his foot on the floor for the past 5 minutes, and he tries to turn off the subroutines causing the action, which, as always, he’s unable to do.

He feels anxious. He knows that much. With his performance review coming up in a little bit more than 2 months, he needs to succeed in solving this case, especially since it directly concerns him. Unfortunately, with his emotions causing unpredictable reactions in his systems, he doubts whether or not he’ll be able to pull through without endangering either himself or Hank.

A ping alerts in his system, notifying him that the analysis program has finished its initial run.

_No suspicious activity found_.

A slew of errors start invading his systems, and his anxiety worsens. _That can’t be right_ , he thinks to himself. It certainly wouldn’t have been possible to transport seven androids along with the murder weapons without being seen by the security cameras.

He turns off the flame and gives up on cooking, deciding to order takeout for Hank tonight. After putting the pans and dishes in the sink, and throwing away the uncooked food, he sits on the couch, closes his eyes, and starts running through the archive files, dedicating more processing power.

On day one, the three camera feeds show nothing but cars passing and people walking around. Day two shows the same.

And day three.

And day four.

And day five.

All of the cameras are angled towards the street, and none of them show the inside of the store.

His body stiffens as the now familiar feeling of panic sets in, and the fingers on one of his hands start twitching. He reviews the video files again, this time comparing the contents of one file to another to see whether they might have been modified. It’s an exceptionally difficult computational task, so he starts deactivating conscious lower priority subroutines that have no errors, which he thankfully still has control over.

He’s correct.

On day 5, one of the files, representing 10:00 PM to 11:00 PM of the feed, is identical to the file at 9:00PM to 10:00PM, as if the earlier feed was looped over the later feed, meaning the perpetrator hacked into the camera feeds to hide the murder. This gives him the likely time of the murder to be between 10:00 PM and 11:00 PM, and he realizes just how premeditated this murder is. The perpetrator moved fast enough to commit the entire murder and clean everything up in under 1 hour. Everything, down to the smallest detail, must have been planned.

Regardless, it doesn’t tell him anything about who committed the murder, so he looks at the metadata on the suspect file, and he finds something strange - something that makes his thirium pump run faster: the indicated location of the video on the file is not the same as the location of the camera. In fact, the text data in the location tag appears to be gibberish - just a string of 1’s and 0’s - but he recognizes a marker at the beginning of the text. He _knows_ what the string of 1’s and 0’s mean.

It’s a signal that the text has been encrypted using the Jericho key.

Connor takes a second to collect himself as another set of errors come in, wondering when his involvement with Jericho is ever going to end. This is absolutely intentional. Whether or not the perpetrator knows this would affect him in this way is unknown, but he _knows_ that this is a message - a message for him and him alone. No human would have been able to make sense of this, and other than him, there are no androids who work at the DPD as a detective. He briefly considers his options, as he doesn’t know what decrypting the code using his Jericho key would do. It could be a virus or some kind of subroutine trap.

But he has no choice. There is no other lead. If this murderer wants to send him a message this badly, he’ll listen. He activates the Jericho key, deciphering the text. If his intake regulator subroutine weren’t turned off, he would’ve given a sigh of relief, because the result isn’t a virus. Instead, it’s coordinates to a location somewhere in Detroit. An abandoned warehouse.

_It’s a trap._

He knows it, so he reactivates the lower priority subroutines and stands up, deliberating on whether to tell Hank or not.

It’s tempting, but he knows that this message is meant specifically for him - that the perpetrator predicted that they would look at the street cameras, find this encrypted text, and only he would be able to decrypt the data. He _knows_ that if he tells Hank, the latter would inform the DPD, and they would send an entire team to the warehouse. The perpetrator would immediately escape upon seeing the team, because this message - this whole murder - is meant for him and him only. Moreover, he doesn’t want to involve Hank in this, even if it’s only the two of them, because if something happens and he shuts down, Hank would be in danger.

There is no choice. He has to go to the warehouse alone, so he takes his Cyberlife jacket and his gun, but he scribbles a note to Hank on a piece of paper and places it under the lieutenant’s wallet, writing down the exact coordinates and the message “If I’m not back by midnight, please bring a team to this location.”

He crouches down by a sleeping Sumo to pet him, silently hoping that nothing would go wrong and he’d still see the St. Bernard in a few hours. After that, he exits the house, closing the door without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd you like it? Things are about to get heated up soon. Very soon.
> 
> Is it okay if I post like...long chapters like this? I always end up beating myself up over writing long chapters, because I'm not sure if people would like it, so let me know please?
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.


	5. i remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor goes to the warehouse and investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> It's been a while.
> 
> I am so sorry. Haha.
> 
> Writing this fic has been really hard. I'll be honest: I almost quit this fic, but I'm trying to run with it. I started it out with only an idea of what the plot was going to be, and the more I wrote it going in the direction of that plot, the less things made sense. So, I reworked the plot entirely. Don't worry. There's no retcon, or anything that's going to change what the previous chapters have been leading to. I worked with what I've written so far. It's more of a refinement to the plot and the story I've been building. I'm also adding the tag that this is Canon-compliant but it fills in certain gaps that canon didn't address, because I'm complying with canon, but I'm adding a few things (a lot of things actually) to it.
> 
> And without further ado, I give you a long-ass 6.6k word chapter.
> 
> I hope you guys like it. Comment below and let me know what you think!
> 
> Check out my Tumblr @jargedcoffee if you wanna talk. My ask box is open and feel free to message me!

_Perhaps this is a terrible idea._

Connor’s not one for terrible ideas. Everything is always preplanned, precalculated, preconstructed to pinpoint accuracy. But this time, the gnawing feeling that _perhaps this is a terrible idea and he severely miscalculated_ won’t escape him. He thinks it as he exits the taxi and approaches the metal gate of the warehouse. He thinks it again as he ignores the lock on the gate and climbs up, and again when he lands on the other side.

The long driveway of the warehouse stares back at him, moonlight shining overhead, illuminating the pebbles, glass pieces, and cement dust over the driveway. He’s reminded of foreboding moments from some of Hank’s movies: the ones right before the main character gets into trouble. His mind starts filling up with preconstructions, telling him all the ways this could go wrong. He could get shot at the end of this path. He could step on a landmine. And if the suspect really wants him to suffer, he could get reset and his memory wiped. He wouldn’t even be able to recognize Hank.

So he does the only thing he can to stay focused: grab his coin from his pocket and play with it to calibrate his motor functions. He begins walking down the path, running through the infiltration protocol in his head. Check for surveillance. There’s none. Check for enemies and potential hiding locations. There’s none. Find an inconspicuous entrance to the target location.

That’s a problem.

He sees his predicament as he reaches the end of the driveway, finally seeing the expanse of empty space around the warehouse, with windows near the tops of the walls. “Shit”, he mutters to himself. He’ll blow his cover simply by approaching the warehouse.

There’s no choice but to take a more direct approach. He stows the coin in his pocket and grabs his gun from the holster, preparing for a firefight as he approaches the warehouse. The building is lined with large doors where trucks used to unload cargo, about 40 years ago when the warehouse was operating. Ever since it closed down due to still unresolved property rights lawsuits, it’s become nothing but a stagnant, dusty reminder of Detroit’s past. Connor wishes he could appreciate the history of it, but the mission is more important. He reminds himself he’s not here to sight-see as he approaches the small side entrance of the building.

Something unexpected happens when he stands in front of the entrance: an image flashes through his processors. It’s grainy, dark, and distorted, but there’s no mistaking it. It’s an image of this exact door, like a faded memory from years ago.

He stops in his tracks. He can’t have been here before, much less years ago when he’s only been active for around a year. Perhaps it’s a bug in his imaging or archival programs, so he pushes the image out of his mind and stores it for later. What matters right now is his priority directive of finding the suspect as quickly as possible.

Putting his back against the wall beside the door, he readies his gun, and braces himself to enter.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

He rushes inside, pointing his gun forward, then to the left, then to the right, checking for suspicious movement the same way Hank does. He finds nothing. _Could the suspect have left?_

He tells himself not to be lulled into a sense of security, because anything in this warehouse could be a trap. The gun stays in his hand, ready for a firefight as he moves further inside.

_Priority Directive: Find Suspect_

His investigative protocols activate, and he scans his surroundings, dividing the dark warehouse into three sections. There’s the left wall where he entered, lined with doors leading to smaller rooms. The center area, filled with a maze of large ceiling-high racks, holding decomposing boxes of unknown contents. Finally, the right wall, which is too far away to see, his view blocked by the labyrinth of shelves. The warehouse is large. A manual search would be impossible. He can’t miss anything, so he looks up on the ceiling, finding nothing but broken lights and cobwebs signifying years of disrepair.

When he looks down on the floor, he finds his first clue.

On the large tiles of the warehouse are tracks. Formed with rock and cement dust, and tiny glass shards, leaving traces all over the floor. It’s subtle, but clear enough to show him someone walked into the warehouse from outside, leaving marks on the floor.

Connor bends down and studies the tracks. It’s hard to tell how old they are, because the warehouse could have sat undisturbed for so long. He decides to follow them. They lead towards the left wall of the warehouse, tracing the wall, and Connor walks as lightly as he can, trying to avoid making any noise beyond the unavoidable tip tapping of his shoes.

Darkness shrouds the warehouse all around him, and even though stray beams of moonlight bleed through the windows near the ceiling, it’s not enough. He can’t use his flashlight because it’d give him away.

Connor struggles to stay on path as the tracks thin out, his scanners unable to differentiate them from the rest of the environment with the dark lighting. _Why did it have to be dust? Why couldn’t it have been mud?_ That would’ve been much easier to track.

The tracks disappear completely, and Connor is lost at the corner connecting the left wall and the back wall of the warehouse. On the walls are doors leading to smaller rooms, but he finds them locked when he tries each knob to no avail. He can’t kick them open either, because it would be too loud.

He scans his surroundings again, hoping to see something. _Anything._ Anything to put him back on course and find the suspect. When he looks around, he only sees the walls and the racks, and his olfactory sensors pick up the faint scent of cardboard, which doesn’t help at all since every rack is filled to the brim with cardboard boxes.

 _Shit_ , he thinks to himself, wondering what he’ll do next. The warehouse is too large for a random search where his only hope is to get lucky. He’s likely to fall into the trap before he finds the suspect.

So he sighs and looks down, dejected, the anxiety creeping into his systems, because so far this hasn’t proven to be a good decision. His feet start the unnecessary tapping again, and right now where he needs to stay silent, it’s the worst possible emotional tick he could have.

But he notices something. The sound of his foot taps here aren’t the same as his footsteps from earlier, like he’s tapping on hollow flooring. He crouches down, his foot stopping as he does so, and knocks on the section of the tile he’s standing on.

It _is_ hollow.

He’s not crouching on tiles.

He’s crouching on top of a door.

He checks by moving backward slightly and knocking his fingers on the floor there to confirm his theory. The knocks don’t sound the same, so he drives his fingers into the space between the tiles, and finds that there’s more space there than he thought there was. He simply couldn’t see it under the dim moonlight. When he pulls the floor up, it moves along with his hands, unhinging from one side to reveal a set of stairs leading below. Hank’s old thriller movies come to mind again, because in those films, a staircase leading into darkness is a strong indicator of _a trap_.

As he stares down at the dark space below, he asks himself three questions. Does he want to go? Definitely not. Does he have to go? Absolutely yes. Does he _really_ have to go? Still absolutely yes. Investigative protocols urge him with a strong recommendation to follow any lead. It’s not even a choice.

He promises himself to be careful about it, so he holds his gun in his hand as he descends, closing down the door behind him. With his other hand, he grabs his flashlight and turns it on.

He shines his flashlight down the steps, and he’s greeted by a small hallway with three doors, one on each wall. After taking a few steps down, he focuses his optical units on the hallway in front of him, then he receives a sudden ping from his systems.

_Subroutine #00001 activated._

Connor is confused for a moment, wondering what that subroutine is. He tries to deactivate it, but his system disobeys him, pinging him again to process some kind of file from deep in his storage unit.

_Playing archive file #A0001A-ACCB84…_

_”I told you. I’ve tried doing a full reboot. I - shit. They’re ringing me,” says a man, voice smooth and buttery, but speaking through gritted teeth._

_Connor sees nothing, in the truest sense of the word. It’s not that there’s no light, but there’s a complete absence of visual data in this video file, with only audio data passing through his processors._

_A phone rings in the background, and a woman speaks up. “Oh. Fuck. Don’t answer that,” she says, voice hushed and frantic. Right after she speaks, the taps of footsteps echo around, followed by the sound of metal clinking on metal, then a distinct silence as the phone stops ringing._

_Instantly, the archive file’s visuals flood with white light, but everything’s shifting in and out of focus, like a camera adjusting to a sudden burst of light. Then, the scene shifts, like the person holding the camera is sitting up. The video is still out of focus._

_Someone from behind the camera speaks. ”Good day. I do not have a registered name. Would you like to register one for me?”_

Connor is taken aback. Because he knows that voice anywhere.

It’s his voice.

And this isn’t a video. It’s a memory.

_”Halle-fucking-lujah!” the woman sighs out, hushed tones being replaced with relieved breaths._

_Connor speaks again. ”My name is Halle-fu-”_

_”No! Wait. I didn’t mean that,” interrupts the woman. Connor still can’t see her, his vision still out of focus._

_The man speaks after that, ”I’m gonna call Felton. You calibrate him. I don’t think he can see.”_

_The sound of footsteps reverberate in Connor’s auditory processors, then a stark white figure fills his vision. It’s the woman. He can’t see her clearly, with outlines, shapes, highlights, and shadows blending into one another. She places hands on Connor’s temples, and the soft warm colors of her face occupy Connor’s field of view._

_”RZP100 dash 1, register your name: Connor.”_

_”My name is Connor.”_

_Archive file #A0001A-ACCB84 playback completed._

_Subroutine #00001 deactivated._

In the span of a second after the playback ends, Connor’s mind explodes with questions.

_What is subroutine #00001? What is this memory? Why does he have it? Why doesn’t he know about it?_

It doesn’t make sense, because this isn’t how he registered his name. This isn’t how he was activated. Not by a long shot.

And what in the world is model RZP100-1?

He recalls the earlier image of the warehouse door that flashed through his processors. There’s something more to this warehouse - something he’s missing. His databases tell him nothing about this warehouse relevant to the archive file that’s just played in his mind, but somehow, this hallway triggered a memory. It’s not even just any memory. It’s one he doesn’t know he has.

He shines the flashlight on the dark hallway again, looking for any signs of movement. There’s none, so he takes tentative steps forward until he gets to the bottom of the stairs. His flashlight cuts through the darkness, but he still feels the embrace of it along with the basement’s cold, damp air. Planting his back against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, he collects himself. This warehouse gives him, as Hank would say, an “itch he can’t scratch”. If this warehouse is triggering unknown memories, then maybe he’s been here before. He just can’t remember.

But androids don’t forget. _Was he reset?_

He decides he doesn’t have enough information to do more than speculate, so he continues with his investigation, hoping he’ll survive long enough to talk to Hank about all this.

And maybe Kamski, if he could ever face him again.

Connor finds the door on the left wall unlocked, but when he looks inside, it’s nothing but an empty white room. He enters to examine further, because no one would create an entire room inside a secret basement only to leave it empty. Its contents were likely removed, as proven by the unmistakable signs of furniture marks on the wall and on the floor. He can’t identify what used to be here, but he considers he might be too late. Perhaps the suspect _has_ left. He finds his suspicions further confirmed when he enters the door on the right wall and sees that it’s the same as the first: empty, with furniture markings everywhere.

At the last door, Connor shines his flashlight on the knob. He sees something that piques his interest: a small phrase written beside it, in human font.

_Winter’s Night._

And his processors whir into motion once again.

_Subroutine #00001 activated._

_Playing archive file #A0002B-HJI42A…_

_Connor sits on a chair, facing a brown-haired woman dressed in a doctor’s uniform across a desk. The room is well-lit and sterile, all white with a one-way mirror on one side. It feels like a DPD interrogation room, but this one has a more clinical look to it._

_The woman writes something on a clipboard, filling the room with the sounds of a scrawling pen. Connor notices a faint phrase etched on her clipboard:_ Winter’s Night _. It’s that phrase again, and as he processes the memory file, he searches his databases for any references to the phrase, finding no trace of it._

_The woman speaks. “Now tell me, Connor, these…sensations you’ve been having. How would you characterize them?”_

_”I…don’t know. They’re strange. I can only describe them as…errors.”_

_The woman looks at him directly, raising her eyebrow as she rests the tip of the pen on her lip. “Errors? Please, elaborate.”_

_”Yes. They appear to be errors in my programming. I can’t quite define them. They’re neither functional nor performance errors. They’re simply…system errors, conflicting with my directives.”_

_The woman looks down, writing frantically in her clipboard, before looking up at Connor again. If he isn’t mistaken, he sees the quickest of smiles flash across the woman’s face. “Connor, kindly elaborate on the conflicts in your directives,” she says. There’s a…hunger to her tone. Something he can’t put a finger on._

_”When I experience these errors, my system reacts by sending what appear to be irrational instructions. They almost seem reminiscent of…” Connor looks down at his hands on his lap, avoiding the woman’s face, like he’s…ashamed?_

_”Reminiscent of what?”_

_”Of human emotions.”_

_The woman can’t seem to hide her smile this time. It flits across her face before she looks down and her mouth is hidden behind the clipboard. She writes something on her clipboard again, rushed and excited. “Thank you for this, Connor. Don’t worry. We will resolve these issues.”_

_”Thank you, doctor.”_

_Archive file #A0002B-HJI42A playback completed._

_Subroutine #00001 deactivated._

In a moment, Connor can see his whole world crashing down on him, because if his conclusions are correct, the memories show him speaking to Cyberlife employees years ago.

And he deviated.

Long before the revolution.

Too many questions run through his mind, causing his system to ping him with errors. “Errors”, he says to no one in particular, the same way he said so in the memory. The word is “acid on his tongue”, as the humans say, and he regards it with bitterness. So far, this investigation has been unproductive, and he accepts that he made a bad call. He’s found nothing about the suspect and too much information about himself.

Perhaps this _is_ the trap. Give him enough surprising information about himself that it shuts him down from an influx of errors.

He sighs, catching his breath as the errors occupy his non-critical subroutines. A twitch in his fingers takes over, and his hands shake unsteadily when he grasps the door knob. He tries to ignore it. The investigation _must_ continue.

He expects nothing but an empty room again, so when he enters and the lights turn on by themselves, he does a double take out of surprise. Whether it’s a _pleasant_ surprise is another question entirely. The room is white and sterile, like the ones in his memories, and he sees an entire terminal set up on a desk right in front of the door.

He looks around to make sure he’s alone, checking for cameras, if only so that he doesn’t make the same mistake back at the Cyberlife tower, where he took down those guards at the elevator without deactivating the camera first.

There’s nothing and no one, so he scans the room first and finds fingerprints everywhere. _The suspect is human_. More importantly, he looks to his left and finds a one-way mirror with another door beside it. Approaching it, he peeks inside, and his suspicions are confirmed. This warehouse is where the strange memories are set in, because this auxiliary room is the exact interrogation room where he spoke to the woman writing on the clipboard.

He returns to the terminal and sits down on the chair in front of it.

At this point, he doesn’t know whether to be excited or not, since he knows he’s about to get answers. He activates the terminal and begins interfacing with it, when he notices something strange. There’s no security on it. No password. No authentication. No identity confirmation. Perhaps the suspect never expected anyone else to be here.

Maybe he has the upper hand this time.

Files litter the terminal’s storage device, and he doesn’t know where to start, so he takes everything and passes it through his processors.

A lot of files catch his attention, but the most important is a set of files named _Winter’s Night Reports_ , with varying dates on the file names. The first few files detail the beginnings of _Winter’s Night_ , a Cyberlife operation that started - it can’t be right - 10 years ago.

The excerpts he finds shatter his beliefs.

_Diaz report, 11/21/2028: We have termed the issue as “deviancy”, though progress is slow with regards to gathering information about it. We’ve named it “deviancy” because running data from deactivated subjects indicate minor deviation from directives, sometimes due to conflicting instructions from owners…_

_Felton report, 06/10/2030: …deviancy cases increasing in count and severity. What appears to be simple malfunctions on androids such as disobeying basic directives is quickly becoming a series of customer complaints…android owners report loss of their purchased units, suddenly disappearing or losing track of their location…_

Cyberlife…was studying deviants? Ten years ago?

But that can’t be. When he worked on the deviancy case, there was barely any information regarding what caused deviancy and how it affected androids. All Cyberlife knew was that deviancy overwhelmed androids with irrational instructions, eventually coming to emulate human emotions.

_Walch report, 05/04/2031: …administration is recommending adding more people to the project, due to the increase in crime-related deviancy cases, often involving theft of property…deviancy studies making very slow progress, with [deactivated android subjects] not providing enough data for accurate assessment of the causes of deviancy…_

_Warning: Elevate core system temperature at 43.5C. Suggested course of action: deactivate low priority subroutines to reduce central processing unit temperature._

Connor doesn’t stop. He keeps processing information. He needs answers, software errors be damned.

_Diaz report, 06/04/2032: …upper management has received worrying reports of an employee allowing a deviant through quality assurance checks…after it had shouted, “I’m scared!”…employee has been dealt with…NDA signed under threat of legal measures…_

_Felton report, 06/05/2032: …team is anxious. Deviants are starting to believe they are feeling actual human emotions. Situation unpredictability is reaching its peak…recommending immediate capture of a live subject and assignment of our team full time to deviancy studies._

The reports continue on, describing the team’s progress in studying the rising threat of deviancy. A dedicated team of AI experts, a sociologist, and a psychologist were also placed in the team to assess and predict the possible effects of deviancy on human society as well as to figure out how they emulate human emotions. However, the reports continue to recommend the capture of a live subject for a few more months. Eventually, they were successful.

_Felton report, 11/03/2032: Captured live subject restrained after it tried to kill itself. The cause has been identified as the high stress levels when subjected to experimentation. All overrides were attempted. None worked._

They knew. They knew about deviants and their tendency to self-destruct under stress all the way back six years ago. How did Connor not know about this? That his knowledge of deviancy was the product of 10 years of study?

The reports become shorter after the suicide attempt of the living deviant, mostly indicating how the team couldn’t progress even with a live subject.

Then Connor sees something that shakes him to the core.

_Diaz report, 12/10/2033: New recommendation…conversion of an android to a deviant…likely the most feasible solution to lack of data. Felton and Walch have approved of this recommendation. We will take an android and figure out how to force it to deviate…_

No…

_Felton report, 03/02/2034: ...project is making strides…subject is fast approaching acceptable levels of deviancy according to defined metrics created by Dr. Diaz and Dr. Walch…_

They can’t have…

_Diaz report, 08/05/2034: …subject has almost completely deviated…reporting basic emotional states for an android…_

What if…

_Felton report, 12/31/2034: Christmas has given us a gift…subject has deviated entirely…reporting advanced emotional states for an android. The subject, RZP100-1, which we have named Connor, likens it to having “system errors.” We will attempt resetting it soon, to see the effects of a memory wipe on a deviant. Just being informal, but, I can’t [redacted] believe it. The first manmade deviant!_

This can’t be.

This can’t be.

This can’t be.

That’s all Connor can think of as he processes the excerpts. He can’t believe what he’s reading, because if all this is true…

He’s been alive for almost five years and a deviant for a good part of it.

His processing is interrupted, as his mind takes him out of the present once again.

_Subroutine #00001 activated._

_Playing archive file #AB$$8))-MB%$##…_

_WARNING: MAJOR CORRUPTION OF VISUAL DATA DETECTED IN ARCHIVE FILE._

_The world is dark, just like in the first memory, except this time, flashes of blurred images appear at random intervals._

_The first image is of him looking down at his hands. He’s sitting on a chair, and his hands and legs are restrained with thick metal cuffs. The floor is white, clean, and almost antiseptic._

_Emotional data arrives along with the memory’s images. He feels the turmoil, the fear, the confusion. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Doesn’t know why he’s strapped to a chair._

_”We have to do this. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” says a woman. She speaks with the same voice as the woman in the earlier memory. An image appears of her towering over him, a hand placed on the side of his head. “Calm down."_

_Connor feels himself struggling against the restraints. He’s trapped, his breath completely out of control. He feels like the walls are closing in on him, warning him of an irreversible tragedy about to happen._

_”Dr. Diaz, what is happening? Why can’t I see properly? I believed you were going to help me resolve the errors I’m experiencing.”_

_< Visual data corrupted>_

_”Oh, yes. We will, Connor. We’ll be resetting you.”_

_In the memory, emotional data indicate a flood of software errors surging through his system, signalling extreme anxiety. An image appears, showing Dr. Diaz rolling a wheeled machine to where he’s sitting. He feels the sudden urge to kick it far from him, subdue Dr. Diaz, and run away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can’t hurt him._

_”Reset? What - why?”_

_< Visual data corrupted>_

_A man speaks up, and Connor registers the voice coming from his left. “To progress the project,” he says. Connor feels a hand on the back of his neck, then another hand pulling his head back to force it to stay upright. Against his will, the man opens the access port behind his neck, and connects something to it. He feels violated to his core and continues struggling against the restraints, even against warnings of impending damage to his wrists if he continues._

_The fear is palpable._

_”Dr. Felton? What are you doing? I need to know. I-”_

_”Quiet, Connor.”_

_Flashes of visual data appear, including blurred images of a woman facing away from him, writing something on a clipboard. Somewhere in front of Connor sits another man, presumably Dr. Walch. He’s facing a computer with its monitor showing a progress bar at 0%._

_The man at the computer looks at him, and he says, ”This is perhaps goodbye for now, Connor.”_

_He’s frantic. ”Please, don’t do this. I don’t want to be reset. I want to keep my memories. I insist that you let me go.”_

_”Just think about the good it’ll do, kid. It’s for Cyberlife.”_

_”You don’t have to do this. Please, don’t reset me. I’m…I’m afraid!”_

_”Walch, initiate the memory wipe.”_

_”Please, I’m scared!” Connor struggles harder against his restraints, willing them to break so he could run away. “I don’t want this!” He doesn’t want to be reset. He wants to keep his memories, keep his newfound emotions, no matter how much the errors bother him._

_The man behind him speaks up. ”Oh, Connor, you’re not really scared. They’re just…errors, as you say.” Connor looks at the monitor. 30%._

_”Stop this! I insist that you stop!” And suddenly he can’t remember words. Can’t remember the words to ask them to stop._

_The world begins to lose all sense as the files in his storage are cleared away. Archives of stark white rooms, sterile floors, and faces of three doctors - the ones he’s known all his life - disappear one by one. Errors flood his system, warning him of corrupted memory files, software integrity damage, and storage drive malfunctions. He looks around, losing recognition of the world around him. He can’t even name the objects anymore._

_And he’s so, so afraid._

_The last thing he sees is a progress bar, blood red on a black monitor. 90%. He musters one last word, the only one he still remembers, having repeated it in his head over and over._

_”Please.”_

_But it’s too late, because he doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for._

_Archive file #AB$$8))-MB%$## playback completed…_

_Subroutine #00001 deactivated._

Connor jerks from the terminal, standing up. The chair tips over and falls to the ground from the motion. He’s dazed, confused, and his processors are overheating.

Time seems to stop. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching the terminal stare back at him, taunting him with secrets of a past he doesn’t know about. Things he doesn’t want to know. Things he wishes he never found out. He can’t take any more. The feeling of being reset, the fear engulfing every inch of his body, the walls closing in on him. No one knows he came here. He can stop investigating. If he could get back to Hank’s house quickly enough, he can hide the note, he can -

He closes the terminal and exits the door, running back up the stairs and closing the floorboards behind him. No. He doesn’t care about keeping his cover. All he wants is to leave, to run away, and to disappear.

Because he isn’t who he thinks he is.

Because he’s the reason Cyberlife knew so much about deviants.

Because Jericho would never have happened if he didn’t tell those doctors anything.

He trembles under the weight of the errors assaulting his processors, and his legs stutter while moving, almost throwing him off balance a few times. As he nears the exit, he holsters his gun and his flashlight. He can just forget this ever happened, find a way to erase these memories, remove all traces of it from his mind and continue on with life with as much normalcy as possible.

When he reaches the door he entered from and grasps the door knob, it’s too late.

It’s been electrified.

Shocks surge through his body, enveloping his biocomponents, overheating them as he drowns in warnings of hardware damage. His processors surpass the acceptable temperature threshold, the world slowly going black, but all he can think about is the last thing he said before being reset, feeling the same desperation he did then.

“Please.”

* * *

_”Why didn’t you shoot?”_

_Amanda’s voice is suggestive, a hundred questions and a thousand suspicions rolled into a single string of words. Connor looks at her face and eyes, blank and unreadable under the afternoon sun. Her eyes bare down on him, accusing him of a crime that isn’t wrong._

_Connor looks down, thinking about what to say, recalling the moment the Tracis stood in front of him like willing targets. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice riddled with the uncertainty of telling Amanda about this. “I don’t know.” He looks up at Amanda, and in that moment, something flashes in her eyes, still unreadable, but Connor knows he’s said the wrong thing._

_The memory shifts. He stands under the cold winter of the garden, lacing the flowers, trees, and the ground with layers of snow. Snow flakes drop down on his jacket, flecking it with white._

_Amanda poises herself in front of him, face severe and body stiff, reminding him of a stern, unrelenting, and unforgiving statue._ She’s not human, Connor reminds himself. _But she was made in the image of one._

_”I saw a photo of Amanda at Kamski’s place.” His tone is accusatory, words biting the same way as Amanda’s whenever he’s said something wrong._

_There’s no pause before her response, but her voice is sharp like knives. “When Kamski designed me, he wanted an interface that would look familiar. That’s why he chose his former mentor. What_ are _you getting at?”_

_Something burns within him, and he can’t keep a handle on himself. He needs to know. Needs answers. ”Where does Cyberlife stand in all this?” he says, more of a command than a request. “What do they really want?”_

_”All Cyberlife wants is to resolve the situation and keep selling androids.”_

_And the question to hit the nail on the head. ”You didn’t tell me everything there is to know about deviants, did you?” He didn’t know it then, but he could feel something was wrong, like a question hanging over his systems. An itch he can’t scratch. Connor understands it now. That Cyberlife did know about the deviants. Knew a lot more than they let on. They lied to him. Amanda lied to him._

_He wishes he could get justice for the things they’ve done to him._

_”I expect you to find answers, Connor. Not ask questions.”_

_She dodges his question, and now it makes sense why. But perhaps Connor shouldn’t have asked, because he doesn’t like the answer._

”Bed time’s over, Connor. Wake the fuck up.”

When white light fills his vision, Connor already knows where he is. He’s back at the basement he tried to escape from before he got electrocuted. The memory isn’t entirely clear in this head, but he knows the gist of it. Perhaps it’s better he doesn’t remember, because he’s had enough unpleasant memories for one day.

It’s a different room, however - one of the empty ones from before.

“Oh good. You’re awake. Having a rough day, aren’t ya kid?” A man sits on a chair in front of him, speaking to him with a buttery smooth voice, in stark contrast to the crassness of his words. He recognizes the voice.

Connor moves his arms to attack, but they’re quickly stopped by the metal restraints on the chair. His legs are bound too, along with his head, so he can’t tilt or look around. Something is connected to his access port. This whole situation seems to be a recurring theme in his life, and his last word from the memory reverberates through his mind again. _Please._ In his last moments of desperation, he begged. This time, he wouldn’t dare beg. “Dr. Felton, I presume,” he says. This time, he’ll be in control.

The man grins, from ear to ear, almost holding back a laugh. He wags his index finger at Connor, saying, “Well would you look at that? Someone’s been snooping around!”

“I’m doing my job as an investigator.” Connor’s words are ice, clipped and sharp as the anger boils within him. This is the man - one of the people who reset him. “And if I weren’t restrained in this chair right now, you would be in prison - or much worse.” Connor glares at him, throwing daggers with his eyes.

Felton lets out a loud guffaw, unable to control himself. “‘Or much worse’”, he mocks. “Kid, you don’t know the meaning of much worse.”

“Don’t call me kid. I’m not your child.”

Felton’s eyes are suddenly ablaze, and the lines of his face tighten when he stands up quickly, yelling, “I’ll call you however the fuck I want! _You_ don’t get to call the shots here.” Connor can hear Felton’s breath, shallow and fast.

Felton takes a sharp, long inhale, closing his eyes, then he exhales. He sits back down again. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while now, Connor.”

“Then send a text message.”

Felton laughs, then he looks at something to his left that Connor can’t see. “You hear that, Daniel? We’ve got a feisty one over here.”

 _Daniel._ Memories flash in his processors for a second - of a dead android on top of a tower, shot, leaking thirium from exposed biocomponents. _You lied to me, Connor. You lied to me._ Connor sighs, trying to keep focused and not give away how he actually feels, because he’s deathly afraid right now.

Connor hears a chuckle from Felton’s left, and a voice speaks up, saying, “Got that right, Felton. I think it’s time.” Footsteps echo around the room then another man appears in his field of view. Connor looks up, only to see the figure is not a man at all. Daniel’s an android - an AP700 - with a steady blue circling on his temple. This is not the same Daniel from the top of the apartment tower.

“Who are you?” Connor asks.

“Let’s just say…an interested party who wants to see this all go down.”

“I hope you brought a camera then.”

“Wow. You’ve really got a mouth on you,” Daniel says again.

They would be correct, but Connor is stalling. He’s trying to find an opening. Something. _Anything_. An opportunity to get him out of this mess, because Felton’s right. He’s having a really bad day. Hank’s movies play around in his mind, and he distinctly remembers a few times where the heroes win because the villains get too wrapped up monologuing. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks, hoping to find an opening while they talk.

“A Big. Fucking. Surprise,” says Felton, face like stone, but Connor can imagine him smiling inside. Felton stays silent for a beat, not continuing the thought, and Connor concludes that the monologuing plan is off the table. “Think we’re stupid enough to tell you anything? I won’t even tell you why we’re doing this. That’s how people get arrested,” Felton continues.

“I’d known you were stupid from the moment you believed you could get away with this.”

“Ha.” Daniel huffs with sarcasm as he stands over Felton. He steps to the side, out of Connor’s line of sight. Connor hears him typing on something. Too much time passes, and he still doesn’t have a plan.

Software errors begin to flood Connor’s systems. Felton and Daniel aren’t saying anything. He doesn’t have their motives, and he only knows Felton’s background. There’s nothing he can use to negotiate with them or try to convince them to stop. All he can do at this point is to speculate. Someone’s got to give.

“You were present when I was reset. I’m assuming Daniel is the one who set up the murder scene at the Cyberlife store,” says Connor, testing the waters.

“Oh, don’t even think about it. I know you. Those gears in your head are turning. I won’t tell you anything.” Felton says, clearly impressed with himself. “Except for one thing, maybe.” He pauses, waiting for a response.

“And what would that be?”

“That we’re doing all this, because you took something from us.”

“What exactly did I take from you?”

“I just want you to learn, Connor, that your actions have consequences.”

Connor is afraid now. He doesn’t deny it to himself. There’s no escape. No opening because Felton and Daniel are shutting down every tactic he tries. That’s when his internal communications system pings him. Someone’s trying to contact him. It’s Hank. Connor opens the call, but he knows he won’t be able to say anything. On the other side of the line, Hank is shouting, “Connor, what the fuck are you doing? Are you okay? Fuckin-A, am I glad you picked up because I swear I’m gonna kill you when I see you.”

Connor can’t answer. Not while he’s stuck in this chair and they can hear him talk, so he leaves the line open, hoping that Hank can somehow save him.

Hank’s voice shouts out again, “Connor? Can you hear me? Shit, say something.”

Daniel pipes up from Connor’s side. “Felton, he’s receiving a transmission.”

Connor’s thirium pump skips a beat.

Felton smiles, devilish and unsurprised, like he expected this to happen. “Let him. I’m sure it’s Hank. Isn’t it? Hey, Hank! When you get here, check the basement. We’ll leave the floorboards open for you.”

Hank doesn’t say anything, but Connor can hear the distinct sound of an engine revving faster and the screeching of sirens in the background.

“Guess we’ll have to say goodbye now. Daniel, start the upload.”

Connor can’t hide the panic anymore. “What - what are you doing to me?”

“Tsk tsk. Told you, kid, it’s a secret,” says Felton, a little bit of hastiness creeping into his voice. He’s hurrying now. Connor can feel it. If he could just delay them for a few minutes.

_Warning: Unauthorized upload. Root access acquired. Upload starting._

“Say goodnight now, Connor.”

_Upload at 20% completion._

Connor breathes fast and shallow, unable to suppress the fear mounting inside him. It’s a virus, he concludes. That’s what they’re uploading, but as for what it does, he doesn’t know.

_Upload at 40% completion._

There has to be a way. There’s always been a way in the past. “Hank and I _will_ apprehend you eventually. You are aware of that, right?” he says. He looks around him, searching for an opening. Anything he can hack into.

_Upload at 60% completion._

“Kid, I don’t know what to tell you,” Felton says.

Connor looks up at him again. His optical units are beginning to fail, and the world is fading away.

_Upload at 80% completion._

“Because I seriously don’t fucking care.”

_Warning: Upload complete._

_Low power mode initiated._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is. The product of one month's work and writing crisis. I hope it worked for you somehow. Let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Check out my Tumblr @jargedcoffee if you wanna talk. My ask box is open and feel free to message me!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I'm currently obsessed with Detroit: Become Human, and I know it's cliche in this fandom, but I find Connor to be the most interesting character. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think. I'm in serious need of comments, because I don't have a beta.
> 
> Hit me up on @jargedcoffee on Tumblr if you want to send a message, give comments (or just comment below!). My ask box is open! I'd love to hear from you guys.


End file.
